I’m not an alcoholic, I just…
Yeah, that phrase isn’t at all suspicious.
Dog is on a mission to lay down in every spot in the house to see which is best. She just did her circle and flop routine in the closet. It’s not even a big closet. But there she is, wedged between the high-heeled sandals that I never got a chance to wear this summer, and the black satin evening gown that I’ve never worn in public. If I didn’t know better I’d think she was making commentary on my jeans and t-shirt/slacks and button down lifestyle – the lifestyle that does not involve ever looking or acting like a girl.
Not that I’m all about the nail-polish and the designer handbag. I have this theory about women, the more high-maintenance their hairstyle/nails/make-up, the more high-maintenance their personality. And honestly, I don’t have the time or energy for it.
Men, on the other hand seem to feel differently. I guess there is something to those high-maintenance girls that they find appealing. I wouldn’t know. I haven’t been on so much as a date in… well, if I’m being honest, it has been a very long time. I’m all about making do, so I try to count the things that really don’t count. I’m great at making friends. And I’m good at fostering a certain level of intimacy. But that is not dating. That is hanging out with friends. Everyone goes home alone.
I’m not complaining, or rather, I am complaining, but I don’t expect any sort of resolution. This is my choice. Or my sentence. Not sure which. Someone asked today if I love Dog. I care about Dog. I want Dog to be happy and to have a good life. I want to do what I can to aid in that. But Love? Love is a strong word. I feel the same way about my friends – I want them to be happy and to have good lives and in that way I love them. But Love? No. Not Love. I think about my life and there are a lot of things that I would really dislike giving up, but there is nothing here now that I could not walk away from – without looking back.
This is what I’d hoped that having Dog around would change. I’m so emotionally detached from everything around me, I’d hoped she would help me reconnect. And in some ways she’s been a godsend. I like having her here. I like having something that is happy to see me when I get home at night. I like having something that is excited when I wake up in the morning. It is soothing to my ego. I feel a little less invisible – a little less expendible than I used to.
At the same time, I know that my status in her life is a matter of chance. If not me, someone else. Or no-one else. It all ends up the same. Worm-food.
In a conversation with my mother today I told her I have no expectation of making it to fifty. She was telling me that fifty feels so young. I do not doubt her. I feel young now and it isn’t until I look in the mirror that I remember that I’m now counting my age by decades. At the same time I want to be done. So badly do I want to be done.
This is something that I didn’t want to write about here. I’ve done the pathos thing. I’ve gone through the therapy and the drugs and the whole deal. I did not want another of my writing experiments to spiral down into the realm of constant-self pity. Yet, it is self-pity or nothing at all. It is where I live. It is where I’ve lived for a long time now. I comfort myself these days by promising myself that if it ever gets that bad again I have permission to check out. To call it good. To be done. To die. And then I keep adjusting the definition of that so it doesn’t include the now. Because I’m not quite ready yet. Not yet. Though I’m close. I’ve been close for a long time now. I don’t know what to do with that.
I have the best friends in the world right now. I have people that I care deeply for and that I know care about me. I have shelter and intellectual stimulation and a constantly growing set of hobbies. I do whatever I can to keep my mind occupied. And when I know that I cannot keep it occupied, I deaden it with booze. But I also know that I am lonely. I’ve been lonely for so long that it is part and parcel of my self-identity. When I dream at night, I dream about what it is like to be alone. When I daydream about the future, there is no-one else around. This is it. Not even my subconscious believes that this will ever change.
The funny thing is that I watch my friends and neighbors as they navigate their relationship drama, and I want nothing to do with any of it. I almost feel superior – with my emotional detachment and what-not. Almost. Then I remember how many years I’ve spent alone. Years.
I’m living by a new policy these days – get as much life lived as I can as fast as I can. I don’t expect to live to a ripe old age. It would be foolish to pretend that I’ll have time to do the things I want to do later. I won’t. And as I’m not stuck with anyone else to worry about, there’s nothing to slow me down. So when this life gets old – and I know it will – I’ll be in a place where I can end it without guilt or regret.
In the meantime, it is a matter of endurance. And balance. Liquor is indeed quicker, but just how much booze does it take to erase the lonely? Maybe I should make a scientific study out of it.
SecondHand Saint 