Sober Curious.

I see that I am needing to reference my menstrual calendar when I am feeling called to write in a public facing sphere. I really came out the gate kicking and screaming in the inaugural blog post.  I was poised to launch into a sordid “tell all” about childhood trauma, institutional neglect and abuse, trauma bonds, toxic relationship patterns and convincingly cogent psychedelic use.  I have had some seriously dark phases in my life, but for some reason; these divorced early 40's are feeling a lot like "The Winter of My Discontent".  My inner "Emo" is reemerging during this current holiday season. I managed to slog past the gravy soaked Thanksgiving with gratitude for it being a single meal versus a marathon of menu planning and placating mouths and ears with endless plates and witty banter.  I am BAD at prolonged social occasions. 

Unless I am performing a specific function, I tend to feel either idle or overexposed.  It might also be because I am a rabid oversharer.  I was not always such an emotional exhibitionist.  In fact, from a very young age, it was the opposite.  I had sisters asking me for dating advice at the age of seven, random strangers flipping their wallets to pictures of deceased or estranged family or friends with questions as to whether or not their last words or actions had just cause -  as if I were a voice of reason or retribution. I was so accustomed to this instant intimacy, that I began to believe it was the norm; even preferable.  It worked well in my twenties and early thirties where social occasions were well liquored, tongues loose with salacious secrets and sexual innuendos and advances. I used to believe that it would always galvanize meaningful conversation.  From there, we would hopscotch through a series of conscious altering conversations until we collectively solve the mysteries of the universe.  It DID work.  At first.

In the recent past, I hit bottom.  It was NOTHING like I expected it to be.  I fully envisioned  my figurative “bottom” (like everyone else's); would end with me bare-assed and passed-out - laying half off a stained ‘floor mattress’ surrounded by used needles, blackened pipes, empty bottles and a bouquet of naked mixed gendered limbs.  My child/ren would be watching a too loud screen somewhere in view of the debasement, with stained clothing and matted hair.  They would be eating some dangerously preserved nondescript ‘foodstuff’ full of brightly rainbowed “E” numbers. My dogs would be cleaning the floor of body fluids, as if good for both goose AND gander; or be chasing a chicken through the living room.  Both a "fowl" hypothetical. 

This day was nothing like that.  It started with the sound of an alarm in direct assault of my ear.  I understood that I had once again fallen asleep on or near my phone.  My half filled wine glass clinked against my glasses as my fingers fumbled clumsily to bring them to my blurry and bleary eyes.  That day, like all others, I hurried my son through our usual morning scramble for school (eggs and all) returning home to clean the kitchen and take the dogs out before remembering my dentist appointment and darting off again.

Earbuds in, I let the waves of “calmer waters” wash over me audibly in the dentist chair after the tumult of the morning.  On glancing down, I noticed a new hole in my pajama pants from a carelessly brandished spliff in the back garden from the night before.  My breathing was markedly shallow as I opened up my most legendary orifice to the dentist’s probing fingers; trying hard not to give his masked face a direct blast of any possible “wine wind” from the night before.  I allowed my mind to wander to the conversation between the Chinese dentist and the young dental school assistant, ignorantly wondering why they weren’t speaking in their ‘mother tongue’ before reasoning that their relationships with their ‘mother’ must be as estranged as mine was, both literal and national.  Attachment disorders are always alienating, even if they do create a common ground for other forms of community. 

I have been trying to find ways to reconcile both my relationship to mother and country for some time, to no avail.  I find it misogynistic that all nations are considered female, while those who conquered, governed or are responsible for making them “Great Again”, are all distinctly male.   

The bonafide “doctor”. made quick work of the teeth cleaning which I mistakenly thought was indication of the strength of my enamel like genetics, not necessarily my ego.  I sat up smugly tonguing the smooth of my teeth when the devastating blow was dealt.  The round frowning face belonging to the duplicitous delving digits peered up at me from bulky bifocals and he said brusquely, “You have three cavities.”.  I do not know if it was from sitting up too quickly, our relational rift, or the death and degradation of both enamel and ego; but I suddenly felt light headed and groped for the dental chair for support.  I had never had a cavity before. A chipped tooth turned root canal - yes; but never a ‘cavity’.  And never three.  Then, I recalled remorsefully all of the nights in college I'd fallen asleep, tongue intrepid with mixed poisons of whiskey, wine and woe. Or on the rare occasion, wet with someone else’s saliva.  Three was still quite good if I wanted to steal self-compassion by comparison.  Still, sober curiosity is always good practice, even if just in contemplation. 

My father always boasted that he had never touched any substance before in his life.  There was no ceremony tempting enough to toast, and he would never hold a joint, let alone know which end to inhale from. Yet, his life was devoured by so many substance abusers in family and community; personally and professionally.  He was a warrior for a true utopia. I am having a spine tingling moment of conscious awareness, that ANY use on my part reinforces my willful nature and dishonors my ancestors.  Even as I now vow to use this self-awareness as a vehicle for changed behavior; I know that I will not.  It is one of those vices that are in “balance”, and so I rationalize tha I am disgusted by my co-dependence on this predetermined evolving and repeating narrative.  Like a mobius strip - the most obvious faucet of time turns a corner and disappears only to reappear back where it originated.  I am Free-willful-less. 

Like so many of us, an epigenetic carbon copy of those before me, armed with damning self-awareness and the reticence to heal completely; or we would all be Shamans.  It is human nature to cling to the familiar.  There is a church, a clinic and a community for that all within walking distance of me here in America.  Hell, there is even an app for that.  I assure myself that it is not necessary when the only needles here at my ‘bottom’ are being injected into my gum with a local anesthetic prepping my mouth for the coming fillings. #nofilter