Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Bad Mood Rising!

It seriously just took me about 6 minutes of fiddling to put a light bulb in the lamp in my bedroom. My hands shake THAT much. I'm THAT inept.

It's 75 degrees in the living room where I'm writing at the table, and I'm wearing a long-sleeved long underwear top, a t-shirt with Steven Drozd's heroin-dazed "Christmas on Mars" face on it, and an old, giant sweatshirt that belonged to Chris. I'm also wearing flannel pajama pants and a pair of Ugg boots. And I'm still completely freezing. My 113-lb frame is just not insulated. I freeze all day long, no matter how many layers I incorporate. It's sort of like being in perpetual drug withdrawal in it's utter discomfort. It's like chasing the dragon with no dragon at the end of the road to breathe warm fire onto your weary bones.

My mom has the television on, and I'm listening to a morose iTunes mix with my ear buds. Though I had to skip around and listen to "Hey Nineteen" again because TOC still hasn't figured out the musical dildo-laden question I asked him last night, which made me laugh more at work today. I caught him off guard and he said he really hadn't paid much attention to the question, but that I should not tell him who the band or song were. Since I'm relatively certain he's still not reading my blog, I figure I'm safe.

Today's kindest moment? TOC was eating raspberries as he had no lunch, rationing them out little by little before he saw patients. He moved on to a container of watermelon, and while I was at my desk working, he came over and offered me the last 2 pieces. "Want some watermelon?" he said. I wasn't hungry, but he looked down at my freezing body and fed it to me off a fork anyway. It was good. Not enough to sustain me, but every little bit helps. That's half-why I engaged him in helping take care of me while my mom and Luke are both away in October. Left alone, I will just not eat, most likely. But he's supportive of what I do eat, and that is very important to me and as I've said before, helpful. A true act of love and kindness.

I put in for a day off of work on October 4th. I texted TOC that I wanted a day alone "to just be Keith Moon all day." I desperately need a day off of work with nobody in the house to take a mental break. My job stresses me out completely, daily, to the point of exhaustion. True, I'll lose money that I desperately need to pay my bills (drugs being the most expensive thing I have to buy, as my insurance covers neither my anxiety pills and only half of my pain pills). But it's a mental trade-off. I need a day where nobody has any expectations of me, unless it's one of the engaged friends who plan to take me out to eat for dinner that week my family is away. I technically *could* have Luke home with me that afternoon/evening, but I frankly don't want him there.

By that time, I will have a full month's supply of benzos and narcotics, and could easily procure booze if I so desired. I could sit around the house and get really high and go wail on my drums all day, though unlike Moon, I doubt I'd accidentally drown myself in a pool after drinking and mixing Antabuse. I'm a dumb junkie but not THAT dumb. And I'm too proud of my sobriety/cleanliness. And I'm too disciplined with my drugs now to do that. The fact remains I *could* do it. I'm confident I won't. But I could. Especially taking the day off. Still, I figured I deserved some unadulterated alone time for a day, and chose the day where I work 1-7pm, in a frenzy of activity, one of my most stressful days. I gave my so-called superior no explanation as to why I wanted the day off. I merely put the requisition on her desk and walked away. I heard her say "October 4th, what day is that? A TUESDAY?" and opened the office door, mumbling to myself, "You got THAT right, sister. I'm taking off on a Tuesday." Fuck ya'll. It's nothing if not a chance to let me go to church with my iPod, sit down and concentrate and learn the fills to "Behind Blue Eyes." I'll behave, I'll behave, I'll behave.

Ma's watching a documentary on Jackie O. They're presently on the early White House days, blah blah, and everything is graceful and beautiful, and life is good, and their China is very pretty and well-coordinated, and she took Dexys to stay awake during the day, and they have two beautiful young children, blah blah. (Do you not know what Dexys are? Do I have to teach all of you about every single drug addict reference in junkie-speak?) I'm half-listening out of one ear to hear what her audio-taped opinion was about all of her husband's philandering. Say what you want about JFK as a president, but goddamnit, that guy got LAID. I, for one, would prefer the leader of my country to be a satisfied man. Look at Clinton. Great president. Married to a prude and getting blown under his desk. Call me crazy, but at least he got shit done and the country was a better place for his affairs. George W. Bush? The whole place went to hell. He should've stuck to snorting Fine Columbian.

I love my mom fiercely, but her negativity-laden banter sometimes upsets me when I'm trying to frame my psyche in the most positive light possible. This afternoon, I Tweeted the following: "It's pathetic how many times throughout the day my mom says the word pathetic." I don't think she realizes how often she employs the word. Not quite pathetic, but I feel sad for her. My friend Bob tweeted back, " As in, "This spoon is pathetic!" "This toilet is pathetic!"?" He didn't know how on the mark he was. His post made me giggle, but he was right. Quite literally, everything in my mom's world is somehow pathetic. Today it was the tag on the back of her shirt, which she couldn't see to cut off with her shearing scissors because her eyes are so bad, which is pathetic, and it was pathetic that the tag was sewn so tightly into the fabric of the shirt, to the point where she said, after I said, "Its' a TAG. On a SHIRT," "It's a BIG FUCKING DEAL!" Oh, let's simmer down there. I understand her eyes really bother her and the tag was hard to get out, but I see no reason to panic. There was a black spot on the kitchen floor tonight that was pathetic too, I think. I could cite several more examples, but how pathetic would that be? The only thing more pathetic than her saying "pathetic" is that I seem to be perpetually around to listen to it. And taking the time to complain in my writing place to pathetically postulate about how pathetic my life is! I really need to get out more.

(For the record, Jackie O had one of the most bourgeois speaking voices on the planet. No wonder her husband was getting it on with Marilyn Monroe. This is what it sounds like when doves cry!)

Next Wednesday morning, I'm going to a preschool and giving a talk to a group of 3 and 4 year olds about my favorite little monkey, Curious George. They're learning about him and reading the books, and I happened to mention to my friend who is their teacher that I still sleep with the Curious George I got when I was a baby. I brought him outside to show off, and he's worn, tattered though not torn, and stinky as hell. I sleep with him in the crook of my neck, never a night apart. I'm 39 years old. George has been there with me for literally ALL of it. Every night. One of my favorite pictures (that I can't find) is one Craig took of Luke sleeping on my chest when he was 2 days old, where I'm also asleep, and George is beside us, wearing "I Love Mommy" booties that were supposed to be for Luke. Juvenile of me, I realize, but still cute. So I have to tell this preschool class about all the adventures George has been on with me, like going to college, on vacations, on my honeymoon, all my trips in and out of the hospital, without the most colorful and interesting story, "Curious George Goes to Alcohol Rehab." A shame, as that story's a real pip. I'll wear my Curious George work scrubs for added effect. I won't let the children touch him, whereas they can touch Luke's still new-looking version of George that I'm also bringing along. A) I'm totally OCD about who gets to handle him and B) there are enough germs laden on George's body for the students to all develop cholera. I refuse to wash him, for he'd lose that Andrea smell and that tattered, "Fuck you, I've survived the loony bin and these are my scars" look he's got. Living with me, Curious George didn't have a goddamn paper route in a red wagon. He went through hell and like me, lived to tell about it. Curious George: The Survivor.

Speaking of whom, it's time for us to get Luke ready for bed and go cuddle together for what I'm hoping is a restful night's slumber.

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