Many of you know, that I have struggled with drinking. Over the past few years, I have tossed the idea around that I may or may not be an alcoholic. I have not, actually, been drunk in almost 7 years, but I would still have a couple of beers every night for almost all of those 7 years. When I came to the lowest point of my depression and contemplated suicide, almost 2 years ago, I was seeing a therapist that gave me a list of Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. I began going. And I struggled with it, like I do a lot of things. Is it the anxiety? IS it the depression? Who really fucking knows?
I struggled going to those meetings for over a year. I was engaged in a lot of the positive messages, but struggled nonetheless. I would go back and forth trying to figure out if I can go back out and try what AA members refer to as “controlled drinking”. I always thought that sounded asinine – I mean, if you have to call it controlled drinking, then you’ve got a problem. No, I’m way to smart for that (This is sarcasm, by the way), I didn’t call it anything other than “I’m not an alcoholic. I’ll quit anytime I want.” It was to a point where I had someone ask me at a meeting once, if I was up to my 30th 24-hr chip. I had made up my mind that I would show everyone there that I could do it. In fact, I made it past 90 days, at one point. Unfortunately, I have had some beer, since then.
I have gone out and drank. I haven’t gotten drunk, but I began to have a beer here and there and then I began having a couple here and there. My current job, when on the jobsite, doesn’t allow alcohol, so I can go two weeks without a beer and not even think about it – unless I feel like crap.
Why am I mentioning this?
Because, today, I want to cram a box full of twinkies down my throat. Yesterday, I had someone refer to me as fat. It’s not the first time it’s happened. I call myself fat, so why wouldn’t anyone else? No one can tell I’ve lost 12 pounds trying to eat right, no one can tell that my pants are a little looser around my waist, no one can tell that I am doing better. What they can see is that I’m not slim, I’m not fit, I’m not sexy. I mentioned, before, that one of my hang-ups about my gender-identity is that I can’t feel good in my body. I can’t find a happy medium on how to feel better.
And so, after hearing that I am fat, I did the first thing that made sense – I went to the store and picked up a package of twinkies, a package of cookies and a bag full of chips, after buying myself a chocolate shake and downing it. I haven’t eaten any of the crap I bought – oh wait, yes I did…for breakfast, I ate the damn donuts I bought. And now, as I am writing this, just a mere four feet away are the box of twinkies. I know it’ll bring me some pleasure for the 3.4 seconds it’ll take me to cram those yellow cakes of creamy goodness down my throat, and I know that it’ll be detrimental to my health.
Maybe that’s the essence of the psychological hook on addiction? Maybe that’s why I could be an alcoholic. And then it makes me think of other ways I have sought temporary pleasure when it comes to feeling horrible about myself: food, sex, masturbation, beer, being online, etc. There is a list, I’m sure could go on and on. I think I run from what hurts me, I run from it and engage in destructive behaviors. Somewhere along the line, I began to question myself, I began to question my own self-worth. I began to question my own reality. I began to question anything I see as unique and positive about me. I began to think nothing really matters, because nothing can really make me happy.
And then I wonder, if keeping a blog like this does the same…