15:06 I feel terrible that I haven’t written yet today, the reason I feel terrible about that is mainly because writing is such a huge therapy for me, I mean it actually makes me into a real person, as opposed to a character or set of characters that has been trained to respond appropriately in given situations. Writing is where I find myself, my true true self, it’s this quiet place of reverence, normally, or at least it was before I started blogging. I’m not knocking the blogging either, though; the blogging was brilliant since it brought me connection with likeminded others, in other words it brought me connection with others besides myself; but it is still writing, rather than blogging, per se, that brings me connection with god, or the CPU (Creative Power of the Universe), as I sometimes call it, which is essentially connection to the one true Self.
So here I am, I am writing on this blog, but I still also intend to write for myself and myself only, but the blog is much easier to write for, since I will stick to this one topic and purpose and I don’t have any ego at all to get past, here, since I don’t exist except in the form of a person in the branches of a sobriety tree. I have no name, I am just a sobriety blogger, I could be anyone at all… the “I” is removed and becomes more of a “we.”
That’s actually what I was going to write about this morning — but I instead got out of bed and did my exercises, then woke the boys for school, then cleaned the toilet in their shared room; a dirty but satisfying job that needed doing, and which gave me quite some satisfaction to complete (tinged though it was by the knowledge that I should *really* be getting them to do it themselves — sometimes I’ll do anything for a peaceful life and/or a clean toilet).
But what I was actually going to write about was the fact that it has been a rough week, and on Sunday night, which coincided with the last night that my parents were here, I had such a mental anguish and turmoil. Partly related to observations of my mother, whom I love, but also partly related to the fact that I had finally published (on my other blog) a piece of writing that I had written one of the last times I got quite drunk, pushing that skeleton out of the closet, so to speak, and it was a strange and stupid and small and vulgar piece of writing, except it was meaningful to me, somehow, to publish it, because it had been sitting in my drafts folder since that night (because though I had written it while drinking, I amazingly, for once, had not published it immediately), and I was “spring cleaning,” not only the house but my hoards of writing. I could have deleted it, or saved it in a private journal, but I decided to publish it.
Why? I guess as a flag to myself of what I am like when drinking. Or perhaps it was yet again self-sabotage. I had received far too many kind comments on a recent, clean, plain little post, and I suppose I (subconsciously?) wanted to send my new online friends packing, with this knowledge of the extent of my idiocy, before I became too attached to them and their praise, and before they figured it out themselves and left me. That seems to be my way of operating. Or perhaps, if I look at it more positively, it was a kind of purposeful fourth-stepping.
My language becomes quite foul, after a bottle of wine, and I become quite self-absorbed and well, basically, I become a motley crew of imagined rock star has-beens duking it out on stage in one body. Of course, few of us have the pleasure of meeting ourselves while drunk, so we may quite easily imagine ourselves being the most beautiful, glamorous, sexy and sultry, witty and subtly amusing creatures on the planet, however in my case at least, the reality is quite different. What a rare gift I gave myself, by writing a few pieces while drunk! If you are still drinking and haven’t done this yet, I highly recommended it (— but to be on the safe side, perhaps block yourself from the internet, first ;)).
Of course, each of those few times I wrote while drunk, I later viewed it through the eyes of a scientist (“fascinating!”) or artist (“how delightfully odd!”), thinking, my my, what brilliant piece of work have we here? What post-modern dystopia? What crass-laden garbage sculpture? What daft proof of devilry?
But when you actually *publish* such beggarly streams of shit, it’s quite the reality check. Suddenly you permit yourself to view them as, say, your grandmother might, or as your child might, or your future boss, or your husband’s future boss. Hmm, you think to yourself, perhaps it comes across not quite as brilliant as I once thought…
But after publishing it, I first felt a real and characteristic release. One of those releases you feel such as when you sort through a bunch of old junk in the attic and finally clean it out. But then, slowly realizing I had not exactly gotten rid of it, but rather framed it and stuck it above the equivalent of my online mantelpiece, I began to feel quite nihilistic about my life and myself in general; whereas before I had only felt tired, dull and depressed. I finally wanted to delete myself completely, not my body, mind you — I have kids and others who would be devastated — but whatever I had “created” of myself; all those representatives online.
The anxiety mounted and mounted and I could not sleep. Finally, in the wee hours of the morning, I left the place beside my poor, tolerant husband, where I had been tossing and turning as quietly as I could, and I went downstairs, and in the dark, I read a few pages of something I thought would be soothing, and it was; and then I took a line from that and wrote something of my own, and published that, and it felt good, sort of like hanging a decent sketch of a flower just beside a smaller, badly-drawn print of a garbage dump. And I began to feel better.
Then I slept soundly for three hours, then got up and did my usual chores, tasks and duties, including bringing the kids to and from their schools, and making a healthy lunch for eight people. Then my husband and parents left — my husband to work abroad during the week as usual; my parents to go to my mother’s former homeland to meet with her siblings, then carry on to their faraway home, my own former homeland, from there. The plates on the table would temporarily be reduced to five. I dropped the kids back off at school, after lunch, and I was… alone. Blissfully alone. For ten minutes, until a friend dropped by. Which was also welcome, since I’d known in my mind’s eye that I would see her soon, and I was indeed glad to see her kind and natural face. In the end, I would get my alone time at night, when I finally went to bed at a decent hour, and during whatever time I could scrape from the following morning, after having caught up on my previous nights’ lack of sleep.
This morning, alone in bed, and ever so grateful to be alone, when I woke from some strange dream I can’t remember now, I felt something happening in my mind. What happened was I felt my “personalities” or aspects of my personality overlapping, sliding neatly together, as though each of my personalities was a pane of glass, and the panes of glass were now aligning, one above the other in the space above my spirit, forming a set that could be used together as a lens into my true self, or that my true self could look out of, without being fragmented.
I believe this is a happy side effect of my re-engagement with total sobriety.
And later this day, as I was driving home from my volunteer job, I reflected that though it may take a good long while for those panes of glass to stay aligned, let alone disappear completely, and though my life will most likely remain in a right muddle in the meantime, I believed it would one day happen.
And that lovely things would begin to happen then.
So I look forward to that. And in the meantime, feel intense gratitude for this day’s sobriety. And for this hour of writing time.
??? Me. Or we.
p.s. here is the tree! look at all those fresh, budding green leaves!
(photo by me)