Compulsion

That's all it is, is Monday. It is unseasonably cold in this corner of the world. I keep expecting it to snow again. The clouds and wind belong to the snow, but it really isn't quite that cold, and so, it rains. Considering that I am mowing the lawn in a jacket, in May, really doesn't push winter back for me. There are no hard frosts, but it is only a trick of the wind.

The grass grows, but the morning can be bitter. It is too cold to leave the window open for the unicorn meat eating cats, and their hearts, hardened by exposure to the New Adventurers, alternate between sleep and growls.

The New Adventurers? Wound up like small toys on springs, a small herd of elephants, lightening fast baby bunnies, they eat.

Some of us, are not amused.

It makes me grateful for the quiet that exists in the lives of my cats. The solace of wisdom is an older cat.

My disorders are managing themselves quite well. Sometimes they run on ahead of me, announcing my presence, but for the moment, they are quiet. I choose to take the anti-Evil pill in the morning, every morning, not thinking about it. I try not to notice that I take them, despite the weight gain, which is hard to ignore.

Some friend described me as calm, the other day, and I marveled at appearances. Calm? The Abilify is truly a miracle drug for me to appear calm. I think of the itchy, crawly person I was two years ago. How utterly miserable it is to live at the whim of a disease. Booze.

It had trampled me into the dirt, at the fairgrounds, and I laid there, sweaty and shaky. I remember the mornings, days even, barely able to hold onto my stomach. I prayed for something to stay down, anything. To drink until I was sick to my stomach, and then try to hold down booze, so that I could eat. And sometimes, I was successful, but most of the time, I wasn't. I roll those days over in my hands, an entire world. There is still so much stigma to being an alcoholic, particularly as a woman. I truly take my courage in my hands to write of being a miserable, sloppy, skin-crawling drunk. How the smell oozes out of the skin, the yellowing eyes, the shaky hands.

The visits to different stores everyday, because I knew just not that many people sauntered up to a counter with a case of beer to buy, at 7 a.m. There is nothing like that sinking feeling, as if the ground itself moved downward. Desperately trying to look 'respectable.' As if I were buying cases of beer for some imaginary work crew, everyday. And such a liberal employer I was! Yes! I was simply popping out for the crew, as they worked on my mansion, you know those painters, those plumbers, those roofers. Yes! Those scads of men who worked for me and surely deserved a cold beer on a hot day, for all their troubles.

Oh, an alcoholic is so sensitive to that kind of thing. The looks I got, even comments, the jokes, all of it. Knowing I couldn't leave the house without a shower, at least, and some clean clothes. Scrubbing hard at the skin to get the smell that came out with the sweat, even in the coldest of winter. Carefully putting on makeup, with my shaking hands, hands that would not stop shaking except after a beer or two. And I couldn't go out smelling like fresh beer! The planning it took to not write a check at the grocery store, because I couldn't sign my name properly. The casual way I bought a few things for the workman, along with that huge case of beer. Or buying two. Now, no one can drink that much in a couple of days! Surely I was buying for a crowd! A party!

And then, the utter relief to reach home, and know I didn't have to think about doing that, and feeling that, for another 24 hours. A whole day free of that kind of shame. Against that kind of shame, the emotions I felt about wasting my life was nothing. After all, I could make it to the trashcan. Sometimes, I could wash the dishes, or dust. I was respectable! I was! Look, I can wash dishes and dust like the rest of them! I looked normal! I did! I wore makeup, and styled my hair. I was ready for a visit from the Pope at 4 a.m.! I washed clothes even, and swept the floor. And huddled in the bedroom, waiting for the President, and the Secret Service to show up, so we could all crack a beer and be jolly.

Yes, it did nothing good for the stomach to stand there, with that case of beer, and feel nothing but total humiliation. There could never be enough makeup, or friends' love, to sooth that cracked place, that split open and bled every morning. And it took until 6 a.m. the next morning to cover that oozing spot up, to go out and do it all over again.

I was helpless, all addicts are helpless, against those feelings. To live in the grips of that terrible compulsion is truly a horror. And as I mentioned, no love could make me feel as if I were human. We are stigmatized even by ourselves. I felt as if I deserved no mercy, no kindness or sympathy. I was despicable. Only another alcoholic could love someone like me, to the depths that would do any good. Only other sufferers could see me and know and say, "I have been like that, too. I know exactly how you feel. Let me help."

My medicine is to know all of this, and remember, and be grateful that I don't have to feel that way today. I think it's time to play with a New Adventurer.