So, in a way, I’ve had my first relapse. I’ve fallen off the wagon in my journey to becoming a better person. I don’t expect people to find any big lesson in this post, but I need to do this as a form of therapy. Here comes brutal honesty.
At least I can be grateful for the sight that I possess over my own existence. Many people don’t, and it makes growing, evolving and maturing more difficult. There are many different arenas of my life that I am making the wrong decisions in, and it ends tonight.
I can’t leave my apartment.
I stopped walking every morning. I find that I don’t want to. The motivation is gone, partially because I’m not sleeping well. The exhaustion from the lack of sleep drags out my mornings, and in turn, the entire day. Doing yoga 3-4 times a week was the norm for a short period of time, and now my motivation for that is diminished. I find I’m turning down invitations to go out with friends. There’s a new joke with two of my girlfriends from the neighborhood about how I don’t even want to leave my block. My life has become the same five places: Break Billiards, Vanilla Sky, Yoga Agora, Bakeway, and Astoria Wine & Spirits.
Negativity is running rampant.
After some negative news at work, random pop ups of health concerns, and the death of my sister’s friend, I stopped really seeing the beauty in everyday life. Even when I do go on walks, I look down now. Something as small as that is highly indicative of a person’s outlook. I stopped looking at trees and flowers. I stopped smiling at strangers and saying hello. I stopped getting super excited over puppies trotting down the street.
My sister’s friend’s death really affected me. He was a staple in her social circle, but that circle was never mine. He wasn’t in my daily life. We weren’t friends on Facebook. I saw him maybe a handful of times each year since she graduated from college. Still, somehow I found myself weeping over him. There was never the thought that “oh he was so young. So sad.” It was a lot more. When I learned about his death, I ran. I haven’t run for myself alone in about a month. Down by the East River I walked along the water for about an hour crying. He wasn’t someone close to me, but I hurt as though he was a lifetime friend. Yoga sessions were dedicated to him, in hopes that he has found peace. Though the thoughts and actions were positive, my mood and outlook were wildly negative.
I get mad at the slightest thing these days. People ignorant to social decorum on the streets, in shops, or anywhere really just make me so mad.
Two incredibly nice people in my life bring out the worst feelings sometimes, and I really don’t have a reason to feel them. There is a major difference in our energy wavelengths, and it makes me furious at times. I can’t accept the fact that maybe we are just that different. I really have to work on letting this go.
Conversations with The Man and one of my best friends usually lead to me saying “I just don’t think I’ll be happy. Nothing good will come to me.” That is such a painful thought, and probably perpetuating certain negative situations and streaks in my life. I want to be happy, but sometimes it really does seem like it will never happen for me.
I’m back to dealing with things by running away.
Whether it’s pushing The Man away because I’m not happy with an occurrence, or drinking an entire bottle of wine because I’m mad about something, I’m back to not facing anything. I’ve been an ass to The Man again, and I don’t understand why I do it. I want to be happy, and more importantly, I want to be happy with him, but I can’t seem to be. The tiniest slight, and I’m crying and enraged. He doesn’t deserve that, though I am not saying that all of our fights are because I’m being difficult. Dirty laundry doesn’t belong here, but I must acknowledge what I’m doing at this time.
The drinking is a problem again. I hate the way it makes me feel, and I hate the way that I use it. It’s not just a social thing anymore. Wine has become my therapist, and though there are countless memes, cartoons, and magnets humoring the idea of drinking to unwind or destress, I believe it’s a problem.
Really, this drinking problem is the only one to which I can really offer up a true solution. The other problems that I am currently have will just have to be fixed through honest, daily hard work. During the month of June, I am going to give up alcohol and track my progress. I want to see what it feels like without alcohol in my system, and if I can even do it. It’s not air, I realize that, but giving up alcohol when it is such a staple in socializing in New York City and life in general, and no one has ever known you to turn down a drink, it can be a bigger challenge than many would imagine. I see a lot of ice cream consumption in the near future.
Thirty days, no alcohol. At least a few sentences posted each day. That’s the goal I am setting for myself.
I’m not creative anymore.
I stopped writing. It’s been well over a week since my last post. It’s not that there hasn’t been the time or effort to sit down and put words from my head on to the screen. There simply is nothing for me to say. My words again get caught in my sleeves, fearful to come out and wreak with the stench of my shortcomings as a terrible writer.
I tried to write a few stories the other day when I was stressed out and treating myself to a two-bloody Mary brunch. The only thing I find myself thinking of is old men who are suffering in their days because of the loss of a woman. One was the story about a former inmate who now works with the Ready and Able program who smiles at the same three women day after day for no other reason than losing love. The other was the story of an old guitarist who is beloved in Astoria, but treats guitar playing like a drug, and escape so he doesn’t have time to stop and realize that his wife is gone.
Why do I only write about lonely men?
Drawing has become difficult. A few weeks ago I purchased a book that was 642 Things To Draw. It was a great book, but these days I can’t even seem to find it in me to envision a cleaver or a hamburger to draw. The creative thoughts just aren’t there.
Luckily, however, my mother did get me a pretty amazing adult coloring book for my birthday. Not “adult” in the sense that I’m coloring in penises, but “adult” in the sense that they are really intricate and beautiful drawings for an adult to colorize. I’ve done one page, but I think it’s better than no drawing, coloring, writing, or artistic outlet at all.
I have it in me to be a better person. Happiness, and overall satisfaction are things that I not only long for, but I’m willing to work my ass off for. The man deserves better. My roommates deserve better. My family deserves better. My friends deserve better. Random people deserve better, though they don’t even know it.
One of the greatest feelings I’ve had in recent times was an evening out with a pretty new friend. After yoga, we went for sushi. After about an hour of noshing and chatting, she began to cry. Not only was she showing me she felt safe with me, she proceeded to tell me a deeply personal story about a struggle she is going through. Not knowing much about the situation, and having never been in a similar situation, I spoke from the heart and tried to make her see the positive. I sounded like a greeting card, but I didn’t care, and more importantly, it made her smile. She genuinely felt better after we had spent an hour discussing her troubles.
I want to be that woman again.
I want to be the person with whom a near stranger could feel safe.
I want to be the person that others look up to as a beacon of positivity, and about whom they can say “She’s a good person,” and mean it.
This is going to take a lot of work, and maybe a few more relapses, but I’m ready, willing, and able to make this happen.