|
jane
|
The self-loathing continues, as does the depression. There is nothing new.
I want a drink.
Exiting the corner office from The Meeting with my boss and the division chief regarding the end-of-year balderdash. Sweating bullets. Heart racing.
Should I have told them about my impending divorce?
Should I say anything about generalized anxiety disorder (DSM 300.02), panic (300.21), 296.35, undiagnosed OCD, 300.4?
Alcoholism?
I looked at evilbook. A photo of my dog popped up: "We thought you'd like to look at this memory..." She's been dead over a year. I killed her. Because she asked me to. She was my best friend. God, I hate myself.
I need a drink.
I woke up at 6am thinking about that Meeting, with today's earworm mercilessly piercing its way through my brain.
Note to self: you have 4 alarms set, ready to be snoozed 80 times each, but you can't do that today. You should be early, so they don't have a case against you. You were right to speak up. You're doing the right thing.
Note to self: set more alarms.
There's a collage in my head; it won't leave. It's a piece of a song, an intrusive thought, panic, attempts to dream. Can't get comfortable. Another song piece (the same one. It just keeps repeating). Please stop, demons in my head. Stop, or I'll kill you with liquor.
Fuck, I need a drink. I've needed one since before I woke up, when I was dreaming about a lost love giving me sweet kisses down below.
People change. Our brains torment us with memories of lost loves, and fragmented songs. We are forced to inflict damage on ourselves, wielding the ethanol sword from ear to ear, to forget the past, the present, and the possibility of a future.
Let us drink.
|
180105
|
