My heart breaks for people who have a problem with alcohol, and believe me, I grew up in a household where the problems with alcohol were exhibited to me in painful detail many, too many, times over. But, ya know? I have tried and tried to get into that. Sick, huh? But I can't, just CAN'T get there. Two beers and a xanax can give a nice buzz, and no hangover, but it doesn't last very long. I guess the secret is to keep imbibing before the buzz wears off. But it is so filling, ya know? And, early into my marriage, and actually in my college years, I was kind of into it big time. But the hangovers and the migraines were not worth it. And these people that walk around with these "guts", yikes; no, thanks. Well, there are pills. Yep. I count them and recount them. Just to make sure there will be enough, so I guess that is just as sick as the alcohol thing. And YET:
I cannot write unless I am wired way out to there. And I love that. But, dealing with real life? I don't know about that. Maybe I like it better that way also. I just hate the ups and the downs. And someone is always there to say, "It's better than the alternative." And I have lived with the diagnosis for 37 years, and truthfully, I prefer it to some of that other stuff. At least I am there for the ride. And, I am at a point where I can say, when I am lower than snail slime, I will be back UP in no time, and I even believe it now.
Every time someone gets their life completely fucked up they call on me. Everyone, sibling, child, spouse, neighbor, friend, cousin, grandchild, parent. I am so sick of that. When I feel like I'm getting a little messed up, I turn to the bottle of xanax. Well, actually, they are only .025's and I AM 67, so I guess it is not so bad. And let me confide in you. I've been WAY worse. And I shouldn't have to explain myself, but I always feel like I have to. Catholic guilt? My husband and his family have this wonderful attribute, that no matter what happens, usually a major fucking disaster of more than epic proportions, (tape at eleven) It is ALWAYS someone else's fault. There are NO bipolar people in that family. NONE.
My husband has a slipped disc and is in terrible pain. Even I, who am unwilling to cut him any slack, ever, will admit that it is obvious. So he is taking codeine. And it wasn't helping so he is talking MORE Bigger codeine? And Five (5) five, days ago I said you better start with the fiber therapy cuz codeine is going to block you up big time. Ya know, being married to a huge asshole and then having that huge asshole be full of shit, and THEN, it turns to concrete within his body? Big problem. Epic problem. "Virginia, will you run to the drugstore and get me..." Can't help but interject a 'told ya so'. And I get the "No. No. That's not the problem." FUCK ME. Here I am again. And, ya know? He has to share, every freaking detail. And, then, "No. It's not the codeine. It's the sciatica." Yeah, Lou. Go in there and take a poll. Which molecule has turned to concrete because of the codeine, which because of UTTER complete immobility, which because of diet, which because of sciatica. No. Just fucking argue about it.
What difference does it make. Get that stuff out of there and shut the hell up about it. Yeah, I know, part of the contract is being there for better or for worse, and yeah, I know, I am an extremely bitter person, but WTF. I am so sick of always being taken lightly, being listened to indulgently, perhaps with a gentle chuckle, perhaps with eyes averted toward the newspaper to indicate I am interrupting the reading thereof, or being out and out right ignored and told I am wrong. I am never wrong. Well, I was once. It was in bio lab when that med student TA was flirting with me. I was in love with Ray. Yeah. Fuck Me.