The Reasons I Drink

These are the reasons I drink
The reasons I tell everybody I'm fine even though I am not
Now, even though I've been busted
I don't know where to draw the line 'cause that groove has gotten so deep
And here are the reasons I eat
Reasons I feel everything so deeply when I'm not medicated

And these are the reasons I don't even think I would quit
And these are the reasons I can't even see straight, and
And these are the ones whom I know it so deeply affects
And I am left wondering how I would I function without it

Here we are
I feel such rapture and my comfort is so strong, oh
One more rip
I go from one lily pad to another to stay lit, oh

Today was a crossroads day, the kind where shame intersects with what should be my joy in moving forward. The kind where it is taking all of my will power to look ahead and fight the demons that I can't identify even with the acknowledgement of those I can. 

It began late Sunday evening when I sliced a deep gash into my finger. Predictably what often happens is my refusal to face reality whenever a serious medical issue arises. I was on the phone with my son at the time mid-argument and wasn't paying close attention. It didn't really hurt, and it wasn't even the amount of blood that ensued. It wasn't even the stupidity of thinking "if i wait until Tuesday, my new insurance will kick in" or "if I avoid the E.R., I can avoid a several thousand dollar out of pocket expense".

No, those are bad enough. It was the thought that yet again I had fucked myself over in such a short time with yet another serious accident. I started to ask myself, was this really an accident? These doubts really started to creep in since I started disassociating and blanking out, and becoming aware of those incidents. The anger, the shame, more anger, disgust and then the denial... if I just wrap the finger it will just "go away". Seriously? What, exactly, will go away?

Then i made the mistake of telling friends, and with it came the not so joking "again?" comments. Most either don't know or understand about the DID. Few, so very few, if any realize how I associate any visit to an E.R. to the beatings and violence I have endured and suffered through.

Then came the inevitable medical history at the Urgent Care facility today. Reviewing my meds. Previous surgeries... that one's always a joy, explaining testicular varicocele surgery as a trans woman. 

And then came the moment I hadn't thought about in a while, but something running in the background for a while now. I stepped on the scale. It's just a fucking number. 144.5. It really doesn't mean anything, except it triggered me. Not to change, but I know I have not been diligent of late. 

So now the terrible "shoulda's" are running through my head like a runaway freight train. I should be happy because my job is going well. I should be happy because I am about to close on a house that I really want in the place I really want to settle down. I should be feeling secure because I'm, at least on paper, going to be OK.

But all I want to do, though I won't, is drink. I don't really even know why. Fortunately, its almost time for bed, and the light of day often settles these thoughts...

I'm hoping that blogging does as well.

The Reasons I Drink
Alanis Morissette