u s e y o u r h a n d s

I went to an AA meeting once. I called myself Elizabeth and sat in a room on the side of a church in summer dusk. And I listened to people who had lost jobs, kids, cars. I went to scare myself into quitting my two bottles of wine a day, and mentioned as much to one of the women leading the meeting. She looked at me straight, her eyes utterly devoid of bullshit, and said, “Isn’t just being here scary enough?” It was, actually. Somewhere, that purple chip I got that night rattles around to remind me of that scared shitless feeling.

I drank way, way too much. But I ate way too much. And before that, I took any prescription drug I could get my hands on. And while I knew full well each time I swallowed a pill or ordered another drink that what I was doing was destructive, immature, and too simple, I continued to do it anyway.

Because I fucking loved it.

I reflect on the moment that the second glass of wine relaxes you. And, lately, due to medication and frequent absention, that happens mid-way through glass one. And I loved the feeling when all the xanax or vicodin or valium kicked in and made the world just slow and fuzzy enough to deal with it all. Like astigmatatic eyes without glasses.

I did it because I didn’t know any other way to deal with emotion. It’s what I saw and swore I’d never do. But I did. And now I don’t. It’s that easy. I fell apart once and can’t fool myself into doing it again. But I really miss these easy outs.

In other news, I am wearing a thick rubber band with Ecstasy printed on one side and Purity on the other. On the other wrist, I have a fuzzy cuff thing courtesy of Suz.

The stray’s tail disappeared around the corner, a flash of orange against a field of grafitti. Nora tried to keep her footfalls light as she scampered after it. This pursuit had traversed several city blocks, through alleys, under porches, and during sunset. She wanted to catch this feral cat, presumably a boy, and bring him home with her.

A few times, Nora had gotten so close to the cat that she’d lunged for him. But the cat’s fur was greasy and he slipped out of her grasp. Her elbows were bloodied and she shivered in the increasingly cold air but she kept chasing the cat even though he didn’t even toss a glance at her.

She knew the cat did not want to be caught. It had paused to groom and Nora crept closer, silent all the time. Before the cat could dart away again, she caught him and held him tight. He bit and clawed. Blood dripped down her arms and the cuts sang. But he remained in her arms.

And someday, he would purr.

Note from the Ed.: You know those times when you already know before you pick up the phone? That something’s wrong? It happened last night, but my heart did not burst, but only leapt, flipped, and gasped. Everything is ok, but I fear that someday, it won’t be.

On a happier note, I made a lovely pie and my hands are not so pained today.

While I’m pretty honest about being a hypochondriac, I’m also realizing that I’m also just susceptible (in general) to my own suggestion. And sometimes this is a good thing.

I know it’s only December and we’re only in the very beginning stages of winter, but at this point last year, I had to hide the Xacto knives. But I feel as great as I ever have. I have the bad times, but many fewer than I have had historically and certainly fewer than I expected.

Why? I started a fabulous cocktail of psychopharmaceuticals in combination with intensive and expensive therapy. So that could be it. There’s the most fabulous boyfriend ever. That could be it. But I think my elevated mood can also be attributed to choice. I’m not willing to cheat myself out of four months of happiness again. So, no more.

Wait, weren’t we going to shut up about the whole personal life? Hadn’t you decided to just live your life rather than putting it all out there?

Well, yes, I had. But I needed to update….

So because you’re lazy and “can’t” think of something to write on said webbity, you exploited your personal life, your prescription medication, and your own sacred bliss?

Yes, but Jesus, can you not put it that way? It’s not like I raped your childhood teddy bear. C’mon!

Whatever. It’s your webbity.

Small? You want tall or small? It’s right up there. Tall, grande, and venti. Small medium large. It’s right there. There are conventions. You have to follow them. And, up there on the board, there are ours. Order appropriately. What you do on your own time is your own concern. Now, next?