Desperate to Get Out From Under this Cloud

I am desperate to not sink into this hole of blackness. To not curl up into a ball and cry, cry, cry. I hate myself, I have no energy and I cannot really see the point. I am so tired of fighting everything – my past, my families history, fighting to maintain a normal existence and do all the things I ‘should’.

My mood is black and bleak.

Yet I still try to maintain a normal exterior – fruit and vegie shopping, knife shopping, bought a juicer for healthier living, walked the dog, marinated a chicken breast, took the garbage bins out, fed all of the animals, folded towels. All in an hour and a half. I used to have four drinks in the same time and ended up feeling relaxed, numb and energised. Now I just feel tired and depressed. So much for healthy, happy living.

My mood may definitely have something to do with the fact that I really only had 3-4 hours sleep last night and it was the first day back at work. AND I did not have a drop of caffeine (tea, coffee or diet Coke) or sugar throughout the day.

So tired I could sleep right here and now, but I am unable to because The Boy is due home soon and I will have to cook dinner – a heap of vegies, chicken and rice for The Boy – no rice for me.

I really don’t want to be a depressive. I am sure that after a good feed, a sleep and a fresh mind, I will be better tomorrow. I hope.

Damn It – Back Where I Started

Damn it.

I am back where I started in February 2010.

Well, that’s not quite true. Life is not as confused, messed up or at risk as it was in February, however 11 months later I am having the SAME conversation with The Boy and the SAME conclusion has been drawn.

I simply cannot drink. Ever. At all. Never. Again.

I was sober for six months, thought I could go back to drinking and ‘control’ it, however drinking controls me and turns me out of control.

At least this time I know what to expect, what not to do, what to do and it seems that I may be able to be more open to Jon about not drinking and the efforts it takes.

Life has definately started to get messy, I have started to regret drinking sessions, watch what I am drinking around certain people and planning on a drinking session when it is ‘safe’ to do so. Even if it is just one glass of wine on my own.

I have also found that my tolerance is extremely high – 3/4 bottle of champagne in an hour – no problem. 4 glasses of white wine in an hour and a half? Done. Still walking.

I am 37 and I have to face the fact that no matter what I try and how I try to control alcohol, it always ends up controlling me.

I don’t want to lose what I have, I want to be proud of myself, I want my friends and family to be proud of me – I don’t want to continue to wonder if I have slipped up and let on that I was drunk, or had been drinking when I shouldn’t have.

So as of Tuesday 3rd January, I am now a sober alcoholic.

I will try to be happy about it, will try to remember the hints and tips that AA taught me and will try to keep in mind why I am doing this. I want to be healthy, happy and energetic, my liver to be happy with me and The Boy to be happy with me. I need to do this for me, my family and my future. If I don’t, I have no doubt that my fears of ending up where I started, and worse, will come to fruition, I will end up on the street or with a bunch of no-hopers just drinking and drugging. Or worse, not being here at all, because I have decided to disappear, to end life because it is all too hard.

I have told The Boy today that I will stop drinking again today – he has heard it before but he should know that I am not as bad as I was, that I have recently stopped for six months so can do it again.

And I will.

Isabella.

xx

Isabella’s Day

Isabella is day dreaming but it’s not a good day dream.

It’s wrought with pitfalls.

She is contemplating going to lunch and having a few wines. So she does. She leaves her office and walks to a secluded cafe and has the first cool,crisp glass of white wine for the day.

She made it to 1pm before she caved.

She knows she should be at work and not drinking but she can’t help it. Nor can she help the next two white wines.

Three wines in an hour. Is the bad?

Isabella thinks so but she does it anyway.

She goes back to work and tries to keep everything under control. Apparently she gets away with it. She thinks. But did she? Paranoia kicks in.

She then plans her next drink – after work. She drives home to a bar near here home.

Downs another three in an hour.

Meets up with friends, has another one. “Her first” for the day.

Then sneaks a quick champers when her friends go out for a cigarette.

They have dinner and she has another two.

Isabella is keeping count – real count.

She knows she has to be careful not to let on to her friends that she has drunk so much.

Again. She is paranoid that she has slipped up. That they know how drunk she is.

Her life is a mess.

Because she drinks. Out of control.

She needs to stop.

Shit is happening.

So I Am Not Adopted

Well.

I know for a fact … or do I …. that I am not adopted.

The reason I know is because I have the exact same issues as my mother and father.

The strengths, the weaknesses and the issues.

No doubt about it.

The only thing that I can say is different is that somehow, someway, I have only just held off from losing control or reality. Not sure how.

October Leaves You Behind

It is the witching hour, when all the ghouls and bad men come out to play, when little children freeze in their beds at the strange sounds in the walls of their rooms, the wind in the trees howling. But you are not a ghoul, you are my daddy. And you are coming. With your kicking boots on. I know it.

IT’s raining outside, the roads are slick with oil and water. The streetlights glow eerily in the dark. It is silent. No cars, birds or voices. Inside, there is an air of expectancy; we are all tired and ready for bed. The party is over, the night is nearly gone. Its time for bed for all of us. I will sleep the sleep of the innocent – it is way past my bedtime, I shouldn’t be out this late but I am because she has had me out. She is drunk. So is he. Maybe even high. They are giggling and smoking, having one more drink before they go to bed. Their speech is slurred and they do not talk about anything in particular. There is smoke in the air of the living room from their ever burning cigarettes. The TV is off.

When the shrill ringing breaks the background silence no one starts, no one is surprised. Except him. He doesn’t expect the ringing. But we do, my mum and I. He is an outsider, he doesn’t know, he shouldn’t even be there. He is not welcome, not by me anyway. He has never been there when the phone rings in the early hours of the morning.

Mum and I both freeze. I glance over to the front door to reassure myself. Yes. The ironing board is wedged between the front door and the cupboard opposite. That will keep him out for a while. But not long as I well know

I shiver in my princess pajama’s that Nana made, look at mum. We don’t move. He asks if we are going to answer it. When we don’t respond to him, he gets up as if to answer the phone himself. We both yell, over the ringing for him not to. There will be dire consequences if he answers the phone. Eventually, the phone stops ringing. Mum and I do not relax though. It will start again and then we will have to answer it. I watch as mum tries to deflect the curiosity from him as he tries to find out why we didn’t answer the phone and why we now look scared. It’s none of his business.

There is silence for a couple of minutes. A cruel reprieve. Perhaps he has decided not to call again, to leave us in peace. Not create a world of pain. I start to feel hope, look at mum cautiously, she too hopes that he won’t ring back. But of course, if he doesn’t ring, he could be on his way over right now, could be down at the payphone at the end of our street, only minutes away. No. there is no relaxing or security until daylight approaches. It is going to be a long night.

As mum and I relax, the expectation of the ringing recedes, the phone screams again. Piercing the silence in the room. He swears in surprise. Mum jumps. I close my eyes and pray for it to stop. When I open my eyes, mum is trying to stop him from getting off the couch to answer the phone, all the time pleading for him to leave it.

I crawl along the carpet towards the phone. It’s the only hope of stopping the inevitable. I am nearly there when mum lunges towards the phone, she is closer. I know she is trying to protect me from the phone but nothing can protect us. As she picks up the receiver, I see her shaking and know how hard it is for her to do this. All of a sudden there is a shriek from the mouthpiece and we all hear the screaming.

“I’VE GOT MY KICKING BOOTS ON!”.

It’s Daddy.

Mum tries to talk to Daddy on the phone, reason with him, pleads with him, argues with him. It’s hard for her through the barrage of abuse and yelling. Taunting Mum, calling her a whore, swearing he will kill her if she has anyone with her. Kill him as well. So much pain. So much anger. She isn’t getting anywhere you can hear that easily enough. He, the dickhead, tries again to take the phone from mum. He is a man, he will deal with it. He has no idea. Mum slams down the phone.

“Oh god I pray” You don’t hang up on Daddy. Even I know that.

Mum and dickhead start yelling at each other. Mum is crying, tears streaking her face, trying to get him to leave before Daddy comes over. Because he will.

The phone rings again. They fall silent we all look at the phone. This time I reach for it while mum shushes him to be quiet. But I already can see that he is a wimp, he won’t try again to interfere, he too heard the anger and the pain and realises he is no match for the monster that is Daddy.

There is silence at the other end.

Tentatively I speak. “Daddy?”

“Hi baby girl. Why are you up so late? Where’s Mummy?” He speaks calmly, quietly.

“She is here, but we want to go back to bed. You woke us when you called” Lying comes easily to me.

“Put your mummy on sweetie. Daddy needs to talk to her”

“No I don’t want to – you will just yell at her. I want to go back to bed.” I start sobbing, I feel the tension in my body, the pressure to get Daddy off the phone. To calm him so he won’t come a kickin’.

“ Sweetie. Does mummy have anyone there with her? A man? Is she slutting around?” He is breathing heavily, starting to lose control again.

“NO!” I quickly yell. “It’s just us two here!” mum and dickhead are frozen, listening to every lie I speak.

“DON’T LIE TO ME!!! SHE’S A SLUT!!! TELL HER I HAVE MY KICKING BOOTS ON!!!” He slams the phone down.

There is dead silence in the room, outside the wind is howling and the rain hits the windows.

Mum lets out a low moan and starts tears silently track a pathway down her cheeks, smearing her dark makeup.

“Go to bed Isabella” she says, trying to pretend all is normal at 2 o’clock in the morning. He gets up, and walks out of the room, she follows him into the bedroom and closes the door. I hear muffled voices as I make my way into the dark and cold room that is my bedroom. I don’t turn on the light in case Daddy sees it and thinks it is a welcome light. I crawl into bed, under the warm covers and lay on my back, staring into the darkness. I know sleep is a long way off, if at all. The night has just begun, I am waiting for the next part to happen because it will.

Interfere?

My memories until nine were of my daddy beating my mummy.

My visual photos dispute this time.

It’s confusing.
My memories beat photos.

Reality can never be captured by photos.

Photos cannot capture fear, sadness and violence.

Interfere or not?..

Next door neighbors.

Screaming, swearing and smashing of glasses.

She is yelling and screaming.

Completely reverse of my childhood.

Call the cops or not????

Interfere.

Or not…

I dont think the kids are there although I did hear them earlier.

They aren’t yelling, crying or screaming that I can hear.

 

I hope they are not listening to this.

 

Its the second time in two weeks that they have launched into each other.

The Boy and I yell but not with such ferocity or hate. Its over quite quickly with us.

On Loneliness

I have spent my entire life lonely, alone.

The most familiar feeling to me is that of silence and time slowly ticking away, as the sun rises to the centre of the sky, reaches it peak and then slowly drops to the opposite horizon into darkness. The afternoons and early evenings are the hardest times to be alone. The light fading into darkness somehow magnifies the fact you are alone, without company or distraction from your metal thoughts.

I sit and stare at the four walls, pondering what makes me so lonely, so alone in the world where there is an over abundance of people and of things to do. Why do I seek time alone, yet when I find myself with only myself and cats as company, I spend the time wondering why no-one is with me, why I do not actively seek others.

To be alone is to be aware of ones environment and self-reliance of entertaining ones self.

I do not turn the television on, nor do I have the radio on in the background. I find these too distracting and calamitous. I prefer to read in silence, to ponder the world and hear it from the safety of my cosy living room, hear the cars going by, speeding up, and slowing down. Listen to the neighbours opening the doors to their apartments, talking, interacting with each other, sometimes slamming doors three, four, five times and I wonder – what could possibly be creating the need to slam doors in such a fashion?

Yet I feel no need to investigate, or to involve myself in others activities. I am content, for the most part, to wake up in the morning with a plan for the day. Take today for instance.

I woke up gradually, feeling Shadow asleep at my shoulder, body curved against my arm and head resting on my shoulder, his lithe body under the warm doona and head poked out for air. Cat imitating owner. Once I stir, he stretches his long paw out luxuriously, stretching, and opens his eyes, looking into mine as if to say “Good Morning. Time to get up?”. He then stands up, screeches his Siamese greeting at the same time as yawning and stretching, hops of the bed and goes searching for his sister.

I on the other hand lay there for a while, contemplating my dreams, my plans for the day and luxuriating in the knowledge that the day is mine, no one else’s and I can do whatever I please. I take the time to marvel at the fact that I am awake on a Sunday morning without the too familiar stench of alcohol on my breath, stomach rumbling from too much drinking of the night before and that horrible, dreading feeling of what did I do the night before in my drunken state. I am proud that I am able to now wake up on the weekends without a hangover, and can fully appreciate the weekends as a healthy and happy person. Oh how many years I have wasted drinking and partying during the night, revelling and living for the moment, ignoring the fact that I would have to pay for it tomorrow! The waste and the youthful attitude of cashing in now, pay later – I much prefer my new self, the appreciation of healthy body and mind and the ability to get out of bed on the weekends! Anyway, enough of this now – I will cover that another time!

So. As I stretch, I start to plan my day and allow myself to feel excitement and contentment at my simple plans and relaxing, fulfilling day.

I get up, and immediately get dressed. No shower today!!! On no!! Its Sunday!!! Put a comb in my newly dyed brown hair, happy with the change, my hair feeling healthier and natural, as opposed to completely blonde with brown roots.

No make up either. I don’t even bother to – gasp – wash my face or brush my teeth. Its Sunday. Its my day! I don’t have to please anyone or go to great lengths, I can accept myself as I am. Bliss. I choose a pair of jeans and a warm black velvet tracksuit top with runners, at least ensuring I don’t look too sloppy although my new flannelette pj’s are calling out to me… no, I will get dressed – coz, I HAVE THINGS TO DO!

Lets ignore the small voice in the back of my mind reminding me that R and D might come home, and do I really want their first impression of me as brunette to be of me without makeup and it slightly greasy? I courageously swipe it aside and confidently set the mantra of “I do not need makeup. I am pretty.” Lets also ignore the fact that I even think that I need to wear makeup to make a statement or that I feel the need to prove my attractiveness to others … again that is for another essay.

So. Supermarket time. I write a list of the things I need to buy as I believe the article that says its best to a) not shop when you are hungry, and b) always make a list to avoid impulse buys or over buying. I am trying to save money, or positively speaking; wanting to spend wisely and frugally, thus the list. I gather my purse, keys and mobile and, list in hand, I leave for the supermarket. I do not feel the need to turn the radio on in the car. This is my day and I do not need distractions or noise in the background, I value silence and the ability to hear my own thoughts.

The supermarket trip is relatively uneventful, I could go into the car washing incident, but I will not bore with the details, nor do I feel like mentioning my, perhaps, less than friendly attitude and refusal to stay at the carwash due to a trivial misunderstanding or direction, correction from the other person involved in this.

This essay is about loneliness, and being alone. Not about my pettiness and perhaps inability to suffer fools…. Or, perhaps dear reader or editor, perhaps this incident could be revealing of the reason why I enjoy the odd day to myself – the ability to be as churlish as possible? Hmmm … interesting. Just not for now!

Back home I go, humming. I unpack the shopping and start organising my paperwork. It is days like today, when I have the house to myself for hours on end, that I feel the compulsion to have everything in its place, neat, tidy and relatively clean. Thus, I spend a good hour, tidying things away, cleaning up my makeup drawers, putting nail stuff into a special basket, hair stuff into another basket, paperwork into the filing folder I bought this morning. As I do this I am aware that it could seem obsessive-compulsive. I know that I cannot sit still, reading or eating the toasted sandwich I have made, if things are untidy or not in its place, thus I tidy up and organise chaos.

The kitchen, bathroom and study relatively organised and my things placed where I will easily find them, I settle down to read “Writing Life Stories” by Bill Roorbach. It does not escape me, the irony of reading how to write, during the time that I want to, ideally, spend writing. However I am also aware that I do not know where to start, how to start, I only know that I want to finish a manuscript, book, memoir or something and get it published.

When it comes to writing, my mind is teeming with ideas for articles, books and stories I want to tell, however I find myself overwhelmed and unsure where to start. So I start something, but don’t finish it, thus I turn to Bill for advice.

Bill suggests free writing (forgive me Bill, I am taking liberty on your words as I do not want to stop to check the exact term for what I am doing). So I am free writing using the title he suggested halfway through his book … use the term “On …” something. Again, I digress, (Bill I am sorry, I did not do the exercises as you requested, I have jumped in at the middle and to do something that appealed to me.)

And. I find something interesting. I intended to write something on the loneliness I started feeling before I sat down to write, and, lo and behold, the subject has changed into a description of my day, not on the loneliness I felt as the darkness of the evening descended. Perhaps it is not loneliness that I so often feel, but a realisation that I am not being creative or releasing the thoughts within, allowing the writer within to appear.

Is this the answer to how to cope with the hours of solitude that I have been searching for years? Writing will fulfil me, as no bottle of red wine in the afternoon will do? Has the answer been so obvious, did I drink myself into oblivion for no good reason when the answer was to sit and write? Well yes, there is never a good reason to drink yourself into oblivion on any occasion – particularly on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon when you are on your own. That reeks of….. Alcoholism!

Oh my. The answer has been there all along. Do not drink. Write. Connect with your inner thoughts, put pen to paper or fingers to keys, and let your imagination run wild and free. Write with abandon and without editing or census, do not worry about the outcome or being published. Get the words on paper, then edit if you wish.

Luv

Isabella.

Life is Shite In Two Areas

Soooooooo…….

Is there any area in my life that is working right now????

The Boy turned up at home after 9pm last night – no phone call, no comment, no “How are you” (not unusual).

Nothing.

Granted I was on the bed reading (Stephen King’s new book – highly recommend it).

I did say hello. He said hello back. That was it.

He came to bed and I could smell beer on his breath. No comment. Nothing.

So I am being shut out. No respect either in the fact of calling/texting to say would be late. At least when I stay out I let him know.

Then work. Oh. What. A. Joy. Thank god they are in Sydney is all I can say. And that I am in Melbourne.

Fuck me. Am I really that bad???? I am feeling like I must be as people seem to be in a shit with me, and I seem to be shitting other people. I don’t know what to do but my instinct is just keep doin’ what I’m doin’, ensure that I am not rude to anyone, angry or offensive.

I cannot make The Boy care about what I do during the day, call me to let me know if he will be late, not get shitty if I want to read rather than watch shit tv.

LOL.

No wonder I medicate myself and sometimes don’t want to go home!!!

Gotta love life.

Isabella.

xxxx

 

Waving, Not Drowning

Waving, Not Drowning

Drowning in memories and dreams,

I fall deeper and deeper into the depths of despair,

I wallow in scenes from the yester year,

Desperately trying to make sense of it all.

Suddenly I head for the light,

Break free of the crushing weight of the water,

I gasp for air, my face wet with tears,

Know that I will continue to dive until I am safe.

So down I go again, diving deeper and deeper than ever before.

The answer is there, the truth laid bare,

I will be able to breathe underwater.

 

Love is like barbed wire

Everyone wants a piece of me,

I lay myself bare, open to their needs,

They pick me apart, feasting at will,

Like vultures on roadkill.

I am safe in my home,

Safe with the love I have chosen,

Although, that love too,

Can be wrapped in barbed wire,

Surprising me with his words,

I turn away bleeding,

Confused,

Alone.

Luv,

Me

What is a fashionista?

 

Who are the fashionista’s of Australia? Log onto any well-known fashion forum and you will find the truth is not as simple as it would seem. On the surface, it would seem that the writers on the forum are up to the minute, fashion conscious beauty queens – vacuous airheads with nothing more on their minds than nail polish colour, how to keep foundation from sliding from their cheeks and of course, the main issues – what to wear to a party. With names like Princess, Beautyqueen and glamourzon, you could be forgiven for believing that these girls are 6-foot beauties of perfection. Paragons of beauty. Untouchable of class and elegance, with their lives a picture of perfection – the perfect hair and makeup, clothes to die for, new-European sleek vehicles and homes that could feature in the worlds leading interior decorating magazines.

 

Scratch the surface however, and what you find are the real individuals. Smart, intelligent women who display strengths of character shown by their beliefs in their own opinions and values, who provide a minute by minute support system to each other. Reality checks are constant within the chat forums with threads such as “Money Diary”, “Career Path and Goals” and “Living on a budget” – these forums tackle the issues of career progress, pathways, and salaries and how to save money whilst still looking like a fashion plate. And more importantly, looking as good as you can.

What is a fashionista?

 

Who are the fashionista’s of Australia? Log onto any well-known fashion forum and you will find the truth is not as simple as it would seem. On the surface, it would seem that the writers on the forum are up to the minute, fashion conscious beauty queens – vacuous airheads with nothing more on their minds than nail polish colour, how to keep foundation from sliding from their cheeks and of course, the main issues – what to wear to a party. With names like Princess, Beautyqueen and glamourzon, you could be forgiven for believing that these girls are 6-foot beauties of perfection. Paragons of beauty. Untouchable of class and elegance, with their lives a picture of perfection – the perfect hair and makeup, clothes to die for, new-European sleek vehicles and homes that could feature in the worlds leading interior decorating magazines.

 

Scratch the surface however, and what you find are the real individuals. Smart, intelligent women who display strengths of character shown by their beliefs in their own opinions and values, who provide a minute by minute support system to each other. Reality checks are constant within the chat forums with threads such as “Money Diary”, “Career Path and Goals” and “Living on a budget” – these forums tackle the issues of career progress, pathways, and salaries and how to save money whilst still looking like a fashion plate. And more importantly, looking as good as you can.

It’s not too bad.

Why, if there is nothing wrong, does Isabella feel like nothing is right?

Why does she have butterflies and a craving to run, hide and to get away from everything?

She’s only been back in the real, demanding world for a week or so.

Is she addicted to drama, dissatisfaction and adrenaline? When things are in control, that’s when she is likely to blow off steam, to run, scream and lose it.

Well that’s what it feels like to Isabella.

When it’s good it’s unbearable.

Searching, searching, searching…….

Always searching for someone, a friendly face, a recognised face. As soon as the doors closed behind me I feel both exposed and hidden. Walking up to the bar, I lean against the wooden ledge, careful to avoid the surface sticky with beer. I place my foot on the rail at my feet, leaning forward, relaxed and open.

I wait to catch the bartenders eye, smiling, watching their movements and assessing how long until I will be served. How many people are in front of me? What will they order? How slow with the barman be serving them. Will the punter fumble with their money, further delaying my turn with the barman.

Finally. Its my turn. I smile, share a quick hello and order my drink. I have my money ready, no delays here, no fumbling, lets get this moving along nicely. I don’t care how much, don’t need to know the details. I know what I want.

I make sure to smile again and say thank you once the deal is done, I have my wine – you never know when you will need him again, to serve you quickly and efficiently.

I turn from the bar and assess where to sit. I have already figured out a general area, however I want to make sure it’s the right place – I don’t want to move again.

I sit down, take my book our, arrange myself. Always keeping my head down and not making eye contact with anyone – this is my private time.

Finally I pick up my glass and take the first sip – it’s a challenge to make it look relaxed and not rushed, like I haven’t been waiting for this moment impatiently for a while.

From then on, I try to slowly savour the glass, knowing that I have a propensity to drink fast, with dedication and enjoyment and surely that would be obvious to others watching me.

I get up for my second – making sure I walk tall, steadily and with purpose. I position myself at the bar so that I can watch my bag – again impatient to be served. But I keep my manners and have a little joke with the same barman… it’s a conspiracy.

Again I keep my head down reading, not making eye contact with anyone, not wanting to be noticed.

After my 3rd, I loosen up a bit and look up from my book… look around at the bar, observing who is there, ensuring I don’t know anyone. I am getting bored with my book, reading is getting harder to concentrate on.

I start looking around, observing happy, laughing faces, wondering if I know them, do I know their lives, their thoughts at all?

What makes them so relaxed to be in such a place?

They have friends with them, all happy to be spending the afternoon in a pub on a sunny day, drinking beer, relaxing and having a fun time.

I want to be a part of that – I want to feel it’s ok to sit in a bar with a group of friends and have a couple of drinks and a good time. I want to relax with a group of people I like and admire, have some fun, then go home and have something to eat, go back to normalcy.

I want it to be ok to be out in the world having fun, a couple of drinks and know when to go home.

I don’t want to be scared of drinking too much, slurring my words or embarrassing people.

I don’t want to have to avoid those situations or be strict with myself beforehand. I know I can control my drinking when I am with friends – its only when I am alone, lonely that I am unable to.

This is a great article – too bad this isn’t me any longer

Hi All,

Worth while to read this blog and article – http://thecurrentconscience.com/blog/

This was me for about six months – the pressure to drink was amazingly strong – even from my partner!

I was constantly having to explain myself.

In the end it just got too hard.

Isabella
xxx

It’s been a difficult day.

Swan dive into the abyss of depression. 

Let go of the tenacious hold of sanity.

Release the strict structures around normality and dissolve into the warm comfort of neurosis.  

Free my soul from striving to be different, to be normal and in control. I want to collapse into oblivion, not have to hold up the heavy weight of responsibility. I want to stop living, I want the world to stop, just for a while, so my mind can be still and peaceful. 

I need to stop the constant invasion of my senses, protect myself from societies requirement to be presentable. It’s tiring. I’m tired. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t hold it up. 

I feel like my brain is going to snap. 

Should do this, should do that. Could do this could do that. Why haven’t you? Why didn’t you? Constantly judged, assessed, failing. 

My weaknesses are all to apparent.

I am a weak little girl who wants to run and hide from this adult world. I’m always frightened that the little girl will be exposed. That I will be discovered as the sham I am. I’m only pretending to be together – inside I’m crumbling.  

Crumbling, allying and always catching myself. 

All I want to do is sleep. Sleep and never wake up. 

I have no energy, no capacity to think of anything else, get excited or plan the future. 

There is little that excites me.  Little that I excite. 

I am a boring little bird. 

A little bird that wants to stay in her nest and never grow up or grow out.  

I Am An Alcoholic

Image

I fully believe that I must be excruciatingly honest with myself and select others if I want a better life.

That the only way to save myself is to acknowledge the good, the bad and the ugly.

I am an alcoholic. My body reacts to alcohol as if I am allergic to it – I start disappearing with the first sip.

I become a ghost – watching from a distance as my entire being lights up like the solar system. Alter egos come out to play – it’s all fun and games until someone gets hurt. By the end of my drinking there was no fun – just blackouts, screaming, tears and revolting episodes and self loathing.

So for me – I need to fully embrace the fact I am an alcoholic, allergic to alcohol who is destined for excruciating pain if I pick up another drink.

Tough to face but life drinking is unbearable.

Isabella.

Bar-khord. Between being and nonbeing.

%d bloggers like this: