Things have been really rough for me, lately. I am consumed by self-pity, all I want to do is cry and it’s not pretty. During these times, I am consumed with existential dread and off-the-wall thoughts.
Why am I a tormented writer? Why couldn’t I be a glaciologist who lives inside the Amundsen-Scott South Pole station? Instead of writing the Great American novel, I could commit my entire life to the study of sea ice. Instead of rescuing pit bulls, I would save stray penguins.
Why would I really want to live inside the Amundsen-Scott South Pole station? I’ve put some thought into this, so I’ll tell you why. Because when I am depressed, I am a vampire. I don’t want the sun to rise and in the polar circle, the sun is down for a continuous period of six months. I could enjoy nonstop darkness for a period of 182.5 days. The only drawback to my plan is that eventually the sun rises and stays in the sky for six continuous months!
So while I wallow in self-pity, I must face the facts. Life goes on. I can choose to deal with life on life’s terms (whatever the hell that means) or jump ship. My current depressed state stems from the fact I am going through another eviction. It’s a pattern in my life, which makes me feel even more like shit than the obvious inconvenience of it. So now I have to find a place to live, once again. Sadly, Antartica is not really a feasible option, because after all, I am not a glaciologist!
Besides the eviction, one of my beloved dogs passed away suddenly a few weeks ago. When I received her ashes inside a little pine box, I fell apart. And when I get down, this loner becomes more alone. It’s easy to isolate where I live in the Mojave desert, population approximately 4,238. There just aren’t that many people up here! What’s even creepier is there are reportedly only 88 single females living alone in the entire Mojave desert! I am not sure if the group of 88 women includes me. And here’s another fun fact: there are only three AA meetings a week in the Mojave.
Instead of accepting that I made a mistake by moving here, I just beat myself up. Worse, I wonder if I am cursed. I imagine I’m the reincarnation of the evil Countess Elizabeth Bathory de Ecsed, better known as Countess Dracula. She bathed in the blood of her victims because she believed that was the key to eternal youth. And just like me, she hated the sun! It would all make sense if I were the reincarnation of Countess Dracula! Facing eviction on a biennial basis, like I do, would be extreme punishment for the Countess, who lived in a castle for her entire life.
All this crazy thinking made me feel even more nuts. So I decided to get out of the house, and get some groceries, plus dog food. I always need dog food. I found myself pushing an empty shopping cart up and down the liquor aisle, staring at bottles of alcohol and muttering, “I am Countess Dracula” under my breath. I stopped in front of the red wine section. Instead of a craving, I felt sick to my stomach. The merlot looked like blood! I hobbled over to the white wine section. The white wine looked like pee! Then I thought, wouldn’t a Countess drink cognac? I paused in front of a glass case that contained the more expensive brands of booze. To me, the bottle of Patron looked like a blue cremation urn that I recently saw on a website (don’t ask me why I was on an urn website). The cost was $119.10, not including shipping and handling. Being of morbid nature, I visualized the eulogy on my Tequila bottle urn.
Sevasti I.
Hated tequila
But, here she lies.
Like an amoeba.
Instead of letting go
And Letting God
She became her own
Firing squad.
A good friend of mine called and I told him that I had been pushing a shopping cart up and down the liquor aisle, like a bag lady. I refrained from telling him my reincarnation theory.
“When was the last time you went to a meeting?” he asked.
“A month? You think that’s a long time to not go to a meeting?” I asked. There was silence on the other end.
“What do you think?” my smart ass friend asked.
“There’s only three meetings up here,” I said.
“When was the last time you went to a meeting in the Mojave?”
“Almost a year ago,” I said. “I usually go to Palmdale.”
“Exactly,” he said. After I hung up the phone, I had a panic attack.
Why am I convincing myself that I am the reincarnation of some lunatic who soaked in blood? Yes, I would love to have eternal youth, but that’s what plastic surgery is for! And why the hell was I checking out the liquor? I don’t want to drink!
When I was drinking there were times I did not want to drink, but I did anyway. After I walked into AA in August 2011, I accumulated a month and a half of sobriety and then went out. During that last relapse prior to my sobriety date on November 28, 2011, I went cuckoo. And now, with almost five years sober, I am experiencing another form of insanity. Thankfully, I had an appointment with my shrink a few days after my supermarket outing. As I sat in the outer office, the nurse took my temperature and vitals. She entered them on my chart, which I could see on the computer screen. I saw a note entered by another doctor, who I’ve seen at the same office.
Patient has history of noncompliance with medical advice, which leads to potential health hazards.
“What does that mean?” I asked the nurse.
“That you don’t seem to care about your health,” she replied.
“How funny for a former hypochondriac,” I said.
But you know what? I do care about my health and my sobriety—I really do! My shrink raised the dosage of Cymbalta, and is leaning towards my having bipolar disorder, a diagnosis that is still up in the air. She is going to see me again soon, and if need be, change my medication. She also told me to go to a meeting, of all things! Maybe that’s because I asked for Xanax, which she refused to give me, because I “have an addictive personality.” But I also asked her if I was a candidate for ECT, and she just said, “No!”
A day after I saw my shrink, an old-timer friend from AA told me that when she was coming up on five years, like me, the shit hit the fan. A bunch of crazy things happened in her life, but she delved more into the program, which became a shield against the external battles she faced. As she spoke, I imagined myself as Sevasti the Warrior, dressed in armor, clutching a shield, and fighting an unseen enemy with a sword. Naturally, the soundtrack would be Richard Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries. I felt better after I talked to her. I’m starting to accept the fact that life on life’s terms sucks sometimes.
I prefer the image of Sevasti the Valkryie to that of Countess Dracula! But most importantly, I went to an AA meeting. I plan to go as much as I can, because without my sobriety, not only do I face potential internment inside an urn, I also lose my soul.
Sponsored DISCLAIMER: This is a paid advertisement for California Behavioral Health, LLC, a CA licensed substance abuse treatment provider and not a service provided by The Fix. Calls to this number are answered by CBH, free and without obligation to the consumer. No one who answers the call receives a fee based upon the consumer’s choice to enter treatment. For additional info on other treatment providers and options visit www.samhsa.gov.
