Last night's post was chock full of nooses and razor blades. How do I get so low? How do I find my way to the bottom of that dark pit before crawling out, half-alive, in the morning?
The formula is simple: artist + alcoholic = drama whore.
It's a terrible combination. See, not only am I a writer, and, in my previous non-child-centered life a stage actor, visual artist and musician, but I am also someone who used to drink her feelings away (or use whatever other substance I could find). Artists secretly crave the dramz so that we can experience new shades of darkness and/or elation, which gives us something more to express in our craft. Something to create with.
You didn't think Shakespeare was healthy, did you? Au contraire, my lambs: He was undoubtedly a messed up guy. Didn't he cheat on his wife with pretty much anyone with a pulse? Michaelangelo? A total diva. Frank Sinatra? A bit of a bastard, really, but immensely talented. That's the way of the artist.
Now the alcoholic finds drama oddly comforting. Why? Because we're so used to creating it that living without it is a lot like living without water. I can't speak for all recovering lushes, but I find that, seventeen years sober, I don't tend to create drama as often, but I do get a bit of a high off of it when it happens. Is that healthy? Hell, no! It's like shaking up a can of crazy and spraying it all over the room. But I did notice that, in the dark, moss-covered recesses of my mind, a part of me liked having something more than burned cookies to complain about yesterday.
Last night I had a program friend give me a call. She has several years of sobriety under her belt and, quite frankly, I've always felt she has it more together than I do.In fact, I think most people have it more together than I do. Some people would call that "perfectionism at work", but I would label it as "reality". So, I was relieved when I realized she was calling to let me know that she's been reading my blog, finds my honesty refreshing, and feels very much the same way sometimes: a foundation of sanity with a few crazy cracks in it.
... You mean, I'm not the only one? I'm not the exception to the AA rule? I'm not the sole person who feels completely dysfunctional at times under this seemingly normal life I've created for myself? Well, there goes the fun in that. It's not original or tragic enough to do if I don't stand out of the crowd. If it's just going to make me like everyone else I might have to stop feeding the drama beast so often.
The good news is that I'm done licking Monday's wounds (ew.), have two gremlins in school and plans for a morning involving at least a latte.
Life is better with lattes. I need that on a shirt.
In the 90 minutes I've been awake, we've only had one whiny Gutsy (getting him dressed for the bus is a lot like trying to put Medusa's hair into a ponytail without thick gloves on) and a smashed snow globe (thank you, Spawnling). And, sure, right now the toddlerface is trying to climb up on my lap and have "mommy's milk", which he knows is now strictly a bedtime indulgement, but whatever. After three children I know whow to type while fighting him off. I bribed him with a bagel and The Chipmunks. It seems to be working.
Today, there is no boiling antifreeze pouring onto my basement floor. There is no repair bill for broken furnaces. I haven't spoken to any of my friends so I couldn't possibly be actively judging anyone. And I have a cup of coffee.
So, life is pretty good. Time for the drama beast to go on a diet.
The formula is simple: artist + alcoholic = drama whore.
It's a terrible combination. See, not only am I a writer, and, in my previous non-child-centered life a stage actor, visual artist and musician, but I am also someone who used to drink her feelings away (or use whatever other substance I could find). Artists secretly crave the dramz so that we can experience new shades of darkness and/or elation, which gives us something more to express in our craft. Something to create with.
You didn't think Shakespeare was healthy, did you? Au contraire, my lambs: He was undoubtedly a messed up guy. Didn't he cheat on his wife with pretty much anyone with a pulse? Michaelangelo? A total diva. Frank Sinatra? A bit of a bastard, really, but immensely talented. That's the way of the artist.
Now the alcoholic finds drama oddly comforting. Why? Because we're so used to creating it that living without it is a lot like living without water. I can't speak for all recovering lushes, but I find that, seventeen years sober, I don't tend to create drama as often, but I do get a bit of a high off of it when it happens. Is that healthy? Hell, no! It's like shaking up a can of crazy and spraying it all over the room. But I did notice that, in the dark, moss-covered recesses of my mind, a part of me liked having something more than burned cookies to complain about yesterday.
Last night I had a program friend give me a call. She has several years of sobriety under her belt and, quite frankly, I've always felt she has it more together than I do.In fact, I think most people have it more together than I do. Some people would call that "perfectionism at work", but I would label it as "reality". So, I was relieved when I realized she was calling to let me know that she's been reading my blog, finds my honesty refreshing, and feels very much the same way sometimes: a foundation of sanity with a few crazy cracks in it.
... You mean, I'm not the only one? I'm not the exception to the AA rule? I'm not the sole person who feels completely dysfunctional at times under this seemingly normal life I've created for myself? Well, there goes the fun in that. It's not original or tragic enough to do if I don't stand out of the crowd. If it's just going to make me like everyone else I might have to stop feeding the drama beast so often.
The good news is that I'm done licking Monday's wounds (ew.), have two gremlins in school and plans for a morning involving at least a latte.
Life is better with lattes. I need that on a shirt.
In the 90 minutes I've been awake, we've only had one whiny Gutsy (getting him dressed for the bus is a lot like trying to put Medusa's hair into a ponytail without thick gloves on) and a smashed snow globe (thank you, Spawnling). And, sure, right now the toddlerface is trying to climb up on my lap and have "mommy's milk", which he knows is now strictly a bedtime indulgement, but whatever. After three children I know whow to type while fighting him off. I bribed him with a bagel and The Chipmunks. It seems to be working.
Today, there is no boiling antifreeze pouring onto my basement floor. There is no repair bill for broken furnaces. I haven't spoken to any of my friends so I couldn't possibly be actively judging anyone. And I have a cup of coffee.
So, life is pretty good. Time for the drama beast to go on a diet.