Welcome to my happily ever after...
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"fucked-up-edness"
Well, hello there Dear Diary. I sincerely apologize for neglecting you lately. I complain, complain about people that forget about their diaries in the summer, and then I fall prey to the same thing. Only in most people's cases they are most likely out enjoying the pool, getting out in the nice warm weather, working out. You know...typical summer stuff. In my case, I am holed up in my house, feverously watching reality TV, and counting down the minutes until Friday night so I can have a drink.
Who am I kidding? A drink? Try a fucking 12 pack. Only this Friday that isn't going to occur. I won't let it. A couple of people have suggested asking my doctor about Antabuse which is a drug that will make me violently ill if I have even a sip of alcohol while taking it. In my case, I may not even need something like that: Have I ever mentioned that I have to completely abstain my eating or drinking anything with sugar in it if I plan on having any drinks? If I even have as little as a lime in my beer, I will turn horribly red, get a stomachache, and then most likely throw up violently? I think over the years all the drinking has fucked up my sugar levels, and as a result when the alcohol starts to metabolize and turn to sugar when I already have sugar in my stomach, my body freaks out. These screwed up sugar levels are why I crave something with sugar in it come 1 AM every morning.
So long story told, come 9 PM on Friday night, I should swallow a big spoonful of sugar. Or eat a cake. Or something. Trust me, the repercussions of not abiding by my sugar/no alcohol thing isn't worth messing with.
One of the things for me that I have always dreaded is figuring out what to do with my time if I don't drink. I mean, when I stop drinking, what will I do? Doesn't that sound dumb?
Sunday night when I lay in bed I tried to figure out what emotion I am trying to cover up by drinking. Am I trying to avoid dealing with something?
I had a horrible childhood. I mean, I hated my childhood. One particular story that pops in my head is that of going to church. My parents made me go to Sunday school, which I personally would rather have gone to the dentist every week instead of Sunday school. Let me explain: we would meet for about an hour or so with boys approximately my age, and it usually was a hour of sheer torture for me. The boys would tease me relentlessly, and usually it was calling me a fag, a fairy, a queer. I had developed remarkable armor for a kid of only 12 years old, but I simply could not keep that armor up all the time. One day the boys teased me worse than usual, and I simply had what I can only refer to as a breakdown. I remember I sat there with my poor volunteer Sunday school teacher for close to an hour after our lesson was over, crying my eyes out so hard I couldn't even talk. The poor guy did and said what he could to comfort me, but I couldn't even anunciate what was wrong I was so upset. I still run into him sometimes when I visit my parents, and even after all these years I want to crawl under a rock.
I remember for almost two years after that, my parents would drop me off for Sunday school, and I'd hide in one of the upstairs church bathrooms in one of the stalls with a book for an hour to keep from having to go face those boys. I never did get caught playing hooky....somehow.
I think that memories like that are what have contributed to my "fucked-up-edness". I think I might still be that little boy hiding in the bathroom.
10:24 a.m. - 2004-09-08
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