drunk

My Thoughts On Depression and Alcohol

I had to break up with my best friend and mortal enemy, Vodka, January 22, 2017. I went to sleep about 2:30 that Sunday morning only to wake up to gut-wrenching pain and a very high fever. The fever was so high that my teeth were chattering and smashing together so hard, that if I were to think about it at the time, I might have thought they were all going to break. But I couldn’t really think about anything except the fever and the pain. I had to get up and pee once, and the walk to the bathroom, from one end of the 20-ft camper I live in, to the other, was absolutely freezing cold and excruciating. I felt an immense surge of relief, after the voyage was made and I was safely back in my bed under about 6 blankets. The relief was slight, to say the most.

I experienced those same symptoms the entire day, symptoms that probably would’ve driven many others to the emergency room, but if I had so much difficulty getting to the bathroom, there was no way I was getting in a car and going to the hospital. NO WAY. Instead, I lay in my bed and waited. I drank as much water as I could, because drinking water required me to not only move, but come out from under the covers. I was able to go to sleep pretty early with the help of my other friend, Xanax, who I really do have a loving relationship with because there is no abuse, whatsoever, one to another. She only helps me when I need her help.

I woke up the next morning about 3 o’clock, soaking wet. My fever had broken and all of my blankets were wet, the ones closest to my body were soaked, the sheets beneath me were soaked, my clothes were drenched and so was my pillow. The smell was purely awful. It smelled of infection and death with a pinch of urine. One of my first thoughts in my groggy state of mind was that I peed the bed, but I didn’t really care about that, I was just angry that I was still cold and now my blankets and clothes were wet.

I’m not sure about this because I am not one, but I think at that point a non-depressed person would have gotten up and changed their bed clothes. I didn’t, I kept on laying in them. I think I moved the top blanket to the bottom, but other than that, I just continue to lie in it and wait for it to dry, feeling sick and irritated.

I made it to work later that morning. I didn’t bathe before I went, but that was mostly due to the fact that the shower doesn’t work in this camper and I’m forced to walk next door to my oldest son’s father’s house and bathe there and I don’t like to go over there.

I ran a low-grade fever all day that would intermittently, raise then break, then cause the sweats. I hoped and prayed I didn’t stink. I have never been a person with very active odor glands, and I have never in my life, save a few, smelled any type of body odor on myself. So, that’s how I assuaged the fear of my stink. I probably did, because I was sweating out nothing but infectious toxins, but no one at work said anything. Not saying that would be something they would speak directly to me about, anyway. That would just be good fodder for gossip.

Today it is three days later and I have not had another drink. I’m still doing the sweat thing, but now it is being caused by the detox. My kidneys still hurt, but not as bad. My body is aching, slightly, all over. I am feeling random sharp pains in different places in my body. These pains will come out-of-the-blue and hit me like a knife in places like one of my ears, or in some part of my leg, arm, back, or shoulder.

I feel much, much better, physically, than I did Sunday or Monday, but now I am alone with Major Depressive Disorder with seemingly no relief. I know I don’t want to drink anymore because at this point there is no denying that I have worn out my kidneys and thought of weekly dialysis scares the shit out of me.

I never had great kidneys to begin with, kidney disease runs rampant on my father’s side of the family, I never met my paternal grandfather because he died eight years before I was born, as a result of kidney failure. I have had problems with my kidneys before I ever began to drink six years ago.

So here I sit, in this tiny little camper, me and my big dog, who is just as depressed as I am, and I wonder if this is what I’m left with? This is no life. This is just breathing…staying alive, but not really being alive. At least alcohol brought some sort of change to the landscape of my thought patterns.

I think about how I won’t be as fun or funny, anymore, without Vodka. Or how I won’t do anymore really cool shit like make international news 2 years in a row. I think about how my YouTube channel which is finally making me money is going to starve because each of the videos were fueled by depression and vodka. Now there’s no vodka.

I feel like I won’t have the confidence or “liquid courage” to do or say whatever I feel like doing or saying. Yeah, I realize it will be replaced with a different confidence, one that I hated not having with the vodka….the kind that allows me to get into a vehicle and go out in public if I need to do so. But the fact is, I probably won’t even do that, because there is nothing I want to do.

So, my question now remains…which is worse? Only time will tell, I suppose.

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That One Semester

I think out of all the repurcussions stemming from my childhood, the one that pisses me off the most is that I buried all of my talents.

I am a very creative person, I always have been.  I am both musically and artistically inclined.  I knew I was good at music because my parents forced me to be in the band in Jr. high, and I was excellent at it.  But because they forced me to do it, I became angry with it and I began to hate it, vehemently.

By the time I reached 8th grade, I had multiple superior awards from Solo and Ensemble festivals.  I could play the clarinet like nobody’s business, and I never even practiced, at home.

The summer before 8th grade, I tried out for drum major and I won.  I did practice my ass off to win that prize, but once football season hit and I was out on the field, or leading the band in the bleachers, I quit.

I only was drum major for one game.  It was just way too much spotlight on me leading the band nerds, when all I really wanted was to be free of that dorky shit and hang out with the cool kids.

I could kick my ass for that now….and I guess I do…and I guess I have, for a long time.

My step-mom finally relented on band when I got to high school, and I was set free.  The only reason they let me out of band was because they intended for me to go to LSU and there were several course requirements that had to be met and being in band would take away two credits a year that I could be putting toward Physics and Biology 2.

So…fast forward to High School Graduation…

I graduated with honors and I was, honestly, mind-blown about that.  I ended my high-school career with a 3.67 GPA, which was completely due to my diligent studying 9th and 10th grades.  By the time I got to the middle of my junior year, I was sneaking out, drinking, smoking weed and not giving a fuck about school.  I have no idea how I passed Algebra 2 or Physics my senior year.

But I did.

I was excited to go to college, but I wanted to get as far away from my parent’s house as possible.  I got accepted to every state school to which I applied and when I sat down with my dad to discuss where I would be attending he said to me, “Son, you have two choices.  You can either go to LSU or you can go to LSU.”

My blood boiled.

He said not only could I only go to LSU, but that I could not live in a dorm room, or anything cool like that, I would be living at Salem’s Lot and commuting.

I can’t lie, though, once I settled in my first semester at LSU, I loved it.  The school is huge, I didn’t know ANYONE, there were very friendly squirrels in the Quad, and I really, really enjoyed that one semester.

 

An Excercise In Realness

When I woke up, this morning, I can’t lie, I was scared to look at my WordPress account.  It literally took me 2 hours to look.  There were no likes, except from a good friend of mine.

People are so disappointing to me.

I am disappointing to me.

If there is nothing else I get from this blog, it is the opportunity to EXCERCISE REALNESS.

I guess we all just want the “realness” that Reality TV provides….

Seriously??

I was upset yesterday, over a plethora of things of which I wouldn’t write.  I only wanted to write about my anger.

I hate being the bitch who whines about how horrible her life is and how all she wants to do is die.  I refuse to be the bitch who has to preface my post with  ASTERISK  CAUSE  I AM TALKING ABOUT ALL SHIT SUICIDAL.

I ain’t her….but those who are her, get TONS OF LIKES AND ALL THAT “FEELING SORRY FOR YOU CRAP”….I know, because I am the first to like all of those kinds of posts, BECAUSE I RELATE TO THEM.

am i truly that hard to relate?

When I go writing about my real feelings, I  will,  inevitably, always make that shit rhyme, and then instead of someone hearing my real shit that’s going on, they get a nice little poem, because I am still incapable of writing about the REAL SHIT that distresses me.

But last night I got balls to the wall DRUNK.

And honestly…I really do believe I said a bunch of the same shit other people want to say, but won’t because even if they’re drunk….they can’t.

People are the biggest stumbling  block in my life….if only they weren’t.

I would be fucking President….or at least mayor.

Ok…this IS FUNNY…I’m your trap queen

You GOTTA know you reading a BORDERLINE BITCH’S BLOG, when she tries to push away her own followers…

OMG…I am fucking sick.

Therapist?

The Haircut

“Come on Sarah, get your stuff together, we have to go to Baton Rouge”, my stepmother said, as she started gathering up her folders containing stacks of papers which had to be graded, later that evening.

My stepmother was a teacher.  She recently retired after twenty-five years teaching in the parish school district, but before her retirement she taught at the ONLY high school in the small city in which we lived. That was good, sometimes, but mostly it was bad.

After school, I rode a bus about two blocks to her school and she was always the last teacher to leave.

I was slow, as usual, to get my things together.  I hated going to Baton Rouge.  We went to Baton Rouge every single day, or at least, it seemed like it to me.

There were many reasons why I hated going to Baton Rouge, not the least of which was the fact that my stepmother drove a 1985 Ford Ranger, specially equipped with NO RADIO.  Seriously, she really, honestly, literally did not want a radio in her vehicle.

To this day, that haunts me…like… I am a strange person, but….that’s fucking strange, even to me.

Besides the Ford Ranger being almost as tiny as a go-kart, once my step-mom, my little sister and myself were inside, the Ranger was filled to capacity, even though two of us were children.  I am not saying my step-mom was fat, I’m saying the truck was freaking small.

I don’t know about you, but I am a person who easily gets carsick.  The tendency towards vehicular nauseousness has decreased with age, but when I was a kid, I hated just about every car ride I took for that reason.

Did I mention my step-mom chain smokes worse than a repentant hooker, fresh-off-da-crack, who is trying to change her ways, sitting on the back pew of her married boyfriend’s church on Sunday morning, listening to him preach?

There was no rolling down the windows in that tiny 1985 Ford Ranger, either.  Even though I knew the answer would always be, “NO!”, everyday I would ask, “can I please crack my window a little bit?”

My stepmother said if I cracked the window it would “blow her hair”.

Whatever that meant…

Speaking of hair, this was the day that my loving step-mother took me, unannounced, to the beauty shop and had the stylist (back then they were called beauticians) cut all of my hair cut right off my pretty little head.

I had no idea what was about to happen. I know it was traumatic for me because once we got to the beauty shop, the memory stops, and my memory never stops.

Nobody’s memory ever actually “stops”, but I have a very uncanny long-term memory.  I remember everything, especially from childhood, in pictures, or, if you will, movies.  I can click on a memory like you would click on a movie you’d like to see on Netflix.

I can remember every outfit I wore to school on the first day from first to twelfth.  I can remember ninth grade french class ‘dialogue’ (and I employ it from time to time).  I can remember the song that was playing on the radio when me and my step-mom got into a fender-bender when I was three, “Sailing”, by *Christopher Cross.  I can also remember the name of the guy who hit us, *Charles Gardner.  I have memories from before I could walk and I have scars to prove they are real memories.

As I remember things, though, I have surmised that my brain hides the especially bad memories where I can’t find them.

I went to school that morning with long, beautiful, chestnut brown hair and I came home with a bowl cut which was level with my ears.

I was only seven, that was my very first haircut and there’s so much more to go.

Even If It Hurts

you can’t hurt me.

try.

you can’t.

I wish you could.

I think it would be nice to feel something…

even if it hurts…

 

WTFOMGFML

I have two, paid for vehicles.

The one I usually drive…the one whose back glass, which is almost as big as the windshield, got busted out several weeks ago, is dead.

Fucking dead.

Ok…no problem…I have another vehicle…it’s got no insurance and it’s not registered but all I want to do is ride to my back yard to my bff’s house to vent…I could walk but it’s about to rain….

I CAN’T FIND THE KEY….

fuck my life fuck my life fuck my life fuck my life fuck my life fuck my life fuck my life

I started working again today and made almost $100 in an hour…..so that’s cool…but I have to put on makeup to work and since I am allergic to makeup and I’m also allergic to my home…it’s double allergies….

haha…one of the symptoms of BPD is adult onset allergies.

I am now diagnosed severe asthmatic and severe COPD.

I got no insurance.

I AM FUCKING ANGRY.

I WANT TO FIGHT SOMEONE OR SOMETHING.

I want to rip my dad’s throat out.

I want to rip my dad’s throat out with the pinky finger of my left hand while using my right hand to slurp two scoops of yummy Baskin Robbins Chocolate Chip ice cream from a waffle cone…all the while keeping my face smiling the sweet smile of a little girl who is happy cause her daddy just bought her some ice cream.

Method In Me Madness

“There is most definitely a definable, discernable pattern in the method of my madness.” -Yahslily