12:00 AM: At this moment, seven years ago, I was uncorking a bottle of beer, aged ten years. Adora and Suzi were at Disneyworld. Without me. On my birthday. To be fair, they were at Disneyworld for a cheering competition I was not able to attend. Worlds, I believe. And they placed first, if memory serves me.
Seven years ago, I recall that I was still a little unnerved at 11:59 and a little surprised when the clock struck midnight. I had long since been certain that I would not see my thirtieth birthday. A bone marrow transplant in my mid-twenties, and a fleeting affair with tower climbing that I began at the age of twenty-nine, seemed to give credence to the fear and foreshadow my early demise. Yet here I sit, seven years later. Drinking a cup of herbal tea. Contemplating my forties. Longing for my bed and my novel. I’m old as fuck.
Seven years ago, I was not drinking herbal tea and longing for my novel. Seven years ago, I was drunk as shit. If I recall correctly, I awoke the next day, not able to recall how I got to where I was (in God of War). I cannot recall if I’d already begun drinking upon waking, which was by far the most fun time to drink, but, if not, that devolution was soon to follow.
Even a year ago today, I was engaged in an onerous struggle with my deamon. I visited Suzi’s mother at the hospital in Pittsburgh. I managed to drive past CVS at 11:30 PM, alone, without waver, and of course that shit made my journal.
March 23, 2016:
I caught myself digging the hole of martyrdom multiple times today and put a stop to it. My previously alluded to concerns may be a big part of that. I had this underlying visceral urge to keep my phone on silent, not check facebook, to basically disappear for the day and make sure no one could do anything nice for me or say anything nice to me. I was able to at least circumvent the behavior if not cease the impulse.
In addition to not drinking today, I would like to set a few long term goals tonight. A few resolves for my new year. I will think about these on my way to Pittsburgh to visit Suzi’s mother. I honestly believe that I am finally on the path I’ve been struggling to get to for the past decade. I did not succumb to my deamon today. I had every excuse and, all considered, Suzi and Josh may not have even faulted me for it. I remained steadfast not because I was worried of letting others down, but for my own sake, and that’s the only way I can do this long term.
Ultimately, I faltered. And, of course, that shit made my journal as well.
June 1, 2016:
I have danced with my deamon. Not once or twice, but many times. I danced with a fervent frequency and a circumstance dictated sustainable intensity. No more than a pint a night, but more nights than not. After the first dance, I found myself enveloped in an uncomfortable fog that I was eager to shed. However, I also noticed that a few days later, when the fog had cleared, I felt better than the day before my dance. The anger was manageable again and I felt comfortable. After further pondering in a proceeding drunken stupor, I came to the conclusion that, yes, I was less angry; however, my ambition had been drowned in alcohol induced complacency. And my confidence was halved at least.
So here I sit again to begin anew. No dramatics this time around. I have been working at the hospital 6-7 days per week and have not missed a day. I have not drank more than a pint, except for the first dance. When we came home after a week in the hospital due to Suzi’s appendicitis, I was already on the edge, just waiting for something to push me over. When we came in, I found that the cat had been locked in my room for a day or two and had pissed on my meditation cushion. That night I drank two pints.
I simply do not wish to trade my ambition for apathy. My confidence for complacency. I also worry about the long term effects of a pint of whiskey each night, oft accompanied by tobacco. I also worry about the long term effects of being sucked into the kind of mediocrity a good, reliable income can foster. That, I think, would be worst of all.
Here’s to new beginnings in the mid-year. The goal is a danceless June followed by an evaluation. No drinking, no smoking. If I am no happier, nor making more marked progress towards my goals, then fuck it. I guess I’ll drink to be just as miserable as everyone else, which is quite content by my own standards.
Here is sit, nearly ten months later, in 2017. Drinking herbal tea and contemplating my existence as of late.
Shameful self-hatred tempered only by an inner state so completely empty, that even self-pity is asphyxiated by a lack of emotional fuel, may be a bit hyperbolic to describe my phenomenological experience as of late, but it’s an affect I’ve been flirting with cultivating. I feel as if I have been drifting through the past few months with a lack of purpose that is painfully palpable. There is no denying the fact.
However, it is worth noting that my nights of reckless abandon have waned into eating some shit food, in substantially less quantities than I would if I’d been wrecked off my tits, and spending too much time on facebook. And smoking. But even that has reduced itself to once a week, or less, with a destruction of the remainder at the end of the night, so that I would not be tempted to smoke again the following day.
What is more notable is the lack of struggle in my sobriety as I draw near the six month mark. Occasionally, I will romanticize the idea of a night of untethered abandon, but there is no power in it. It is a nostalgic longing, soundly squelched by consequential reasoning. What I really long for is purpose rather than reprieve. I yearn for a struggle that draws me in so completely that I lose all concept of time. I desire fulfillment, above all else. With perhaps a bit of hedonistic indulgence peppered in to stave off the remnants of crippling existential dread. An insurance policy on impermanence well spent.
It is my good intention to review the first quarter of this year, identify pitfalls, and create a plan for the next quarter. Perhaps to proceed with the mindset of setting one year and five year goals, and then figuring out how to accomplish them by the end of June.
2:14 PM:
I will set out to begin my day, at midafternoon, as has become my custom. It may be worth exploring the benefits in waking up and getting started earlier. If I hate it, I can always switch back to what I’ve been doing. I do feel a certain resistance in the notion of even attempting it though. As if being a physical therapist who therapizes more than most, yet rarely wakes up before noon, is part of my anti-conformist identity. Or maybe I just like staying up until 4 am doing whatever.
While meditating a few minutes ago, a useful thought crossed my mind. I was performing tonglen practice with a focus on anxiety in myself and others. Ironically, nearly all of my anxiety stems from wondering on most days how I’m possibly going to see every patient, if today will be the day one finally slips though, which is an issue solely because I wake up at noon. Nonetheless, the thought was that no matter what happens, I will be reading my novel in bed tonight. As I write it out, I realize that could one day be untrue, so perhaps a slight alteration is in order, but I do like the perspective shift. All of the little problems that cause a visceral tightening throughout the day will ultimately mean nothing. Regardless of how each pans out, even if they pan out piss poorly, I will be fine.
I will try and keep this in mind today and reflect this evening. It is my good intention to finish reading my 2016 journal (I still remember exactly where I left off: The day before I began 20 straight days at Wheeling Hospital … a week or so before my gas line needed replaced mid-summer right in the middle of my 20 day stretch).
