Let's think happy thoughts, shall we?
I am a complete human being. I have all my fingers and toes and I have two eyes and a mouth and two ears. That alone should make me happy. But I also have this: a beautiful girlfriend and her snappy daughter and I have a mom who loves me unconditionally and I have two sisters and their husbands--I love them, too, them B-I-Ls--and I have a grandmother who, though her health is failing, still registers in my mind at least four times a week.
I am gainfully-employed and I make a pretty good wage. I have dogs.... Did I mention them? No, I didn't. I have two dogs: Ollie and Louie. Louie is the sage one, the handsome one, and Ollie is the bumpkin, but I love them both just for who they are. (Don't ever tell me that animals ain't got no souls.) Who they are is: Companionship, Love, Soft, Furry, Regal, Hilarious.... I could go on.
Happy thoughts.
And but the Happy Train gets derailed.
How long would you allow a visitor to mangle your Happy Life? Would you allow a gargantuan smelly motherfucker to slop through your home and overturn the furniture? Would you let the Jabba the Hut motherfucker access to your most precious dreams and desires? Would you be surprised if the (invited) guest crapped all over them?
I see Alcoholism personified as a greasy yellow-brown-green tub of lard. I see the A as a being who cannot fit through doorways, yet still, somehow, gains entrance. I reckon I see A as a vampire: it sucks, it swallows, it comes back for more. And more and more. And more. And more of my lifeblood till nothing is left and I am discarded as an empty shell. Are those happy thoughts? Naw. Are they realistic thoughts? Oh, completely.
My days, recently, have consisted of me going to work, second-guessing myself the whole day as I try to locate the gas mains and gas services that our contractors could not find, and then coming home and sitting in the comfortable La-Z-Boy armchair that I snatched from my dead uncle's estate and cracking.... Beers. Cracking beers. I did not mean to imply that my mind was cracking, though it most-assuredly is. I am somewhat flibberdashed.
To make matters worse, I got over-buzzed last night and said a mean thing to my lover's daughter. I called her a bitch. And I called her stupid. But I put it together, out of my mouth, so that it came out flawlessly, and ten times more vicious. Is that who I am? I have always seen myself as a peaceful, affable guy. Has Jabba the Hut robbed me of even that?! I would not be surprised.
So...I sit here, at home (nobody-home), on a vacation-excused workday, pondering. Pontificating.
Losing.
Losing a lot.
Losing, perhaps, my sanity. My girl. Her daughter. My sense of well-being. My self-love. Lost. Losing my finances, as beer is not free. Losing my physical and mental health. Losing my dogs' loyalty and pack-respect. Losing the ability to care about dishes in the sink and Ollie's piss-circle in the dining room, right next to his bowl. I am losing the verve for life. The Verve for Life...what's that, again?
It is out there. I know it is.
It will take work, hard work, to regain that verve. It will take me admitting to myself that this shit cannot continue. It'll take me looking at myself in the mirror and admitting to myself that I...have...lost...It.
"It" is intangible. You don't recognize when you have it, but when it is lacking or, God forbid, gone, you realize what you have lost. The Verve is strong, but I'm not.
Like I wrote above, this'll take some hard work. I have a lot of halving to do. A lot o' scalpel work. I need to slice Jabba outta my mind. I need to send him a heave-ho. (Where his over-packed greasy body will slice-splatter on the curb of Harwood Avenue.)
And, yes, I am alllllll talk. I can't imagine a week without alcohol. I can't even, seriously, imagine this day without the Beast in my life.
As the minutes turn to hours and the hours turn to days (daze) and the days turn to weeks and months and years...well, I see myself, ten years from now, no family, dogs dead, no job, no welcome income, sitting in the ratty chair of a hotel room, bemoaning my fate.
Am I over-emotional? Yes, to a certain degree, I am over-emotional. Does that mitigate, in any way, the danger in which I now find myself embroiled? Naw. It is what it is; it is what I have written.
Happy thoughts.
Happy thoughts.
Fucking Happy thoughts....
I have met my soul-mate and I have two blessed dogs and I am gainfully-employed and I live in a nice area and I have a loving supportive fam dambly and I am in relatively good health and I enjoy playing sports and I am at peace, most of the time, and I have comfortable furniture and a nice television set and a kick-ass laptop computer and.... Need I go on?
No. Didn't think so.
Life can throw curveballs. Life can be boring and can suck. But! Life is life.
