Hello. I know, I've been reticent as of late, and I'm not sure why. It could be that I'm dealing with "real life" instead of escaping into the easy distraction that is sex, and the seeking of it, or I just haven't been feeling particularly inspired. I've wondered in the past if I have addiction problems, having been reliant upon alcohol and drugs to deal with my emotions and personal life situations instead of just, well, dealing with them. I've written in the past about how I abused various benzos, especially Xanax, slugging back hundreds of milligrams over a four year period. Late last year, I finally tapered off, also discontinuing my MSRI prescription. Since then, I've felt markedly better: a sense of clarity and stability, despite my recent financial and housing stress. It's not surprising for you to read that I was suicidal at various points of my life, is it? The closest I've ever come was about two years ago, when drinking a bottle and a half of wine after a three month period of sobriety, where I found myself clutching a dull steak knife in my hand and bawling hysterically. I called 911 on myself. The paramedics arrived and somehow, I stupidly tried to convince them I was OK because by the time they were in my apartment, I realized I couldn't actually go through with it. I'm a coward, maybe. Since then, I've promised that I would never let myself get to that point again. And I haven't, even when faced with eviction, and an apartment that was literally closing in on me.
So here we are, 2010, and I've lost someone I loved and I'll never know why. Max is gone without an explanation, and I'm OK with that. I have to be OK with that. His reappearance in my life last summer taught me that I should pursue what makes me happy, even if I may never find it again. Will I find joy with a married man with children? Will I find fulfillment alone? Will I find pleasure at the bottom of a cocktail glass? I am smart enough to know that two of those options are probably not the most healthy pursuits.
It's why I'm sober tonight. I went to a party last night to celebrate a friend's birthday and after drinking numerous glasses of wine and one half of a forty ounce of cheap domestic beer (I have no idea what it was doing in their refrigerator but when the bottles of red were drained, another guest and I thought it was a great idea, probably because we were drunk), I slipped out of the soiree knowing, "It's Sunday night and I have to be at work."
That is all I remember.
I woke up this morning, naked and alone, wondering how I managed to totter home the five blocks from her luxury complex to my tiny apartment. I was relieved, of course, but terrified. I don't live in the safest of areas and I could have been assaulted or worse. See, it's one thing when you get drunk at a date's apartment when you know you are spending the night or with friends who accompany you home safely or drink in house; it's another to wander home, inebriated and primed for a black out, especially as a woman. I have managed to escape unscathed my entire life. Now is not the time to tempt the fates.
This blog is dangerous in many ways for me too; I am constantly putting myself in harm's way by fucking so many people and then writing about it in a public space. The next random stranger I meet could be a murderer. And maybe I know I should not be throwing myself into possible situations from which I will not be able to extricate myself safely just for the sake of writing. For the sake of finding beauty in despair.
Fret not - I won't be writing about kittens and unicorns going forward. I will continue sleeping with people, but not simply just for volume or your vicarious thrill. I'm going to fuck for fuck's sake.
Having expressed all that, I guess now say, hey, I christened my apartment and I don't remember any of it because, yeah, I was drunk. Does this mean I can pretend it didn't happen and find someone else and fuck him while sober?
