I’m currently reading my 43rd book of the year – Women Who Love Too Much
Anyways, the book had me at hello. Or rather, at:
When we excuse his moodiness, bad temper, indifference, or put-downs as problems due to an unhappy childhood and we try to become his therapist, we are loving too much.
When we read a self-help book and underline all the passages we think would help him, we are loving too much.
When we don’t like many of his basic characteristics, values and behvaiours, but we put up with them thinking that if we are only attractive nough and loving enough he’ll want to change for us, we are loving too much.
Yup. I’m totally buying into a self-help book. It’s called me names, already – a co-alcoholic – and it’s quantified my sex life as trying to make myself indispensable. The horror. The truth. Anyways. I’m ruminating on this stuff. And here’s what I’ve got for ya, today…
JDawg ruined drinking for me. Having to watch him act like a fool, slurring about having drunken sex, falling off of furniture, saying the wrong thing at the wrong time to the wrong person, passing out, choosing alcohol over our daughter, sweating beer, throwing up in the mornings, being hung over everyday, spending a $5K inheritance in less than two months, etc, etc. has ruined it. I’m hyper aware now. I’m scared to come across as such a _________.
I consider myself an addict, really. I may not drink everyday now, but when I was 20, I did – from waking to sleep, often. When I started smoking pot at 22, I became a chronic weekend wake ‘n baker, which set us up for an eighth of grass missing in a 36 hour period. When I was 14, I was addicted to coke and heroin and cigarettes and feeling like men found me sexually appealing. When I was 24, I dabbled in some meth and back into the coke and whiskey and coffee and don’t even get me started on the not eating – and even though I had a manic break, I felt good.
I find something, someone, a feeling and I become hooked, immediately.
And then, I find it hard to let go of the binge on that thing. Now, I drink one drink, almost nightly, alone in my apartment after Isobel goes to bed, just cause it’s what I do. One drink will give me a buzz, but not get me drunk. One drink means I’m just unwinding.
But only sometimes. The rest of the time, I rarely drink. And drinking to the point of drunkenness has only occurred four or five times in the past three years or so. Why? I get bored with the act of drinking outside of an extremely social event. And I don’t like feeling out of control.
So, let me break down my new resolution. I am quitting drinking.
Alone.
And since I have such a booming social life, this means that you can pretty much only count on me drinking after a liquid linner with Huckdoll or Mr. Lady or maybe one day, if we go on a date without children or doggies, Rizlabeff. Or maybe one day, Stargirl will not have to work or do homework and will grace me and a bar with her presence. Or maybe the Labour Day weekend, when Sarah comes to play.
See my new-found frequency? I think it’ll be good.
