My Whole Expanse I Cannot See…

I’m tired, kind of down. I went to a movie and freaked out, heart pounding, struggling to breathe. I calmed myself down, but that sort of thing hasn’t happened since… pre-2005.

I’m uneasy.

So, I listen to the New Yorker: Fiction Podcast. Every month, a writer from today chooses a story to read that was previously published in the New Yorker, then there’s a discussion about the story. I’ve been listening for awhile, but the one story that really sticks out for me is Day-Old Baby Rats by Julie Hayden, published in 1972. It’s a short-story about a day in the life of a young woman in New York City. She’s an alcoholic, we’re there for her first drink in the morning, we see the city through her eyes, we hear her thoughts on everything she sees, and doesn’t see. It’s a gripping story of a woman, stricken by loneliness and anxiety, surrounded be millions of people.

Julie Hayden created a beautiful story in Day-Old Baby Rats, but Julie Hayden’s personal story is also sadly moving. She lived in New York City, had a story collection published, did regular writing for the New Yorker, she was doing things just about every writer aspires toward, definitely what I aspire toward. Still, today you can barely find a trace of her on google, by the time of her far too early death in 1981 her work was largely out of print, largely forgotten. Anxiety and phobia fueled her own alcoholism, she’d carry a flask, taking nips to numb her worries. Cancer ended her writing and her life. forever. She did these great things, but she still slipped and fell and ended badly. Her sad writing mirrored the sadness in her head, people found it beautiful, compelling, and yet for some reason, she died pretty much unremembered. It scares me how that can, and does happen. We all want our stories to end well, but sometimes, no matter what, they don’t. They just don’t.

I worry about my story.

Well, now that I know of her, I’ll remember Julie Hayden, and maybe this post might put her work in some new minds. It’s not much, but it’s something. She, and her work, are definitely worth remembering.

Well, December’s not going to be perfect, post-wise. لعبة الحظ الحقيقية I fucked it up yesterday. This is okay, I accept it. I need to get back to quality, I’m so far from quality I barely remember it. Still, past all the anxiety, and stress, and nightmares, is me. I’m in here somewhere…

I’m aware that at some point, probably soon, people are going to forget me if I don’t start writing again. I’m sure this is already starting. I really don’t want this to happen.I love words and writing, arranging words into something whole, and hopefully beautiful. I like that people read my stuff, and when someone tells me that something I wrote affected them. I don’t want to be forgotten, and I don’t want to disappear before I’ve written something of real importance, something that feels important to me anyways.  I’m just stuck, and the desire to write things, anything, isn’t in me. I’m drowning in anxiety, and fear, and a certain emptiness, and ennui. I hate these feelings, though they’re so completely familiar. The thing is, I don’t feel “lost,” I’m not lost. I know where I want to be, what I want to feel, I know everything I want. I always know what I want, I’ve never not known. This, it’s like a bad dream, and I can’t wake up. I so can’t wake up.

Still, I need to write. I need to force myself to write, something, anything, everyday. Maybe everyday. I need to try, at least.

So, under stress, I tend to make really stupid mistakes, mind blowingly stupid. Over the past few months, on several occasions, that mistake has been drinking way too much and lying about it. It’s such a stupid thing to do, but I kept doing it. Unfortunately, I did it again Friday night. I promised, I swore that I wouldn’t do that again, but I totally got smashed. I broke my promise again, I hurt someone I love more than my Goddamn fucking BiPap. I really hate that there’s something in me that could do something so awful. I keep thinking about the whys…

I’m nervous and uneasy just about all the time lately, it just doesn’t stop, it’s almost always something. When you find something to make that feeling go away, you really like it. Anything for some peace…

Alcohol has certain sensual qualities. It puts a nice warm feeling in my chest, it puts an amazing taste in my mouth. I really do love my peg tube, but sometimes I really do miss strong tastes while eating. I get certain flavors in my mouth with the peg tube, garlic, various spices, mint, but alcohol is by far the most noticeable…

Okay, this reason seems pretty stupid, but I saw drinking as a way to exert personal independence. Everybody kept telling me that I couldn’t do it, which, stupidly, only made me want to do it more. I wanted that choice. I wanted to prove that I could handle it. However, I definitely can’t seem to handle it, so it’s time to close the bar and call it a day…

So, I made mistakes that I can’t go back and undo. I can only go forward and not make those mistakes again. I’m going to see a doctor about some anti-anxiety meds, I’m going work on things that bother me, but I’m definitely through with the drinking. I wish I’d been smart enough to figure this out sooner, before I lost anything important.