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I just realized why I�m feeling so bogged down and tired: I didn�t go to bed last night. I started to climb into bed around 7 a.m. this morning, but sleep was just not happening. Not with the sun coming up, the insane cluster of neighbor dogs conversing. So I watched this documentary on Levittown, NY. Called �Wonderland� and piddled with drawings, prattled with guitar before mustering the enthusiasm to eat a bowl of cereal. I hadn�t slept yet, therefore it shouldn�t be light yet, so in following my logic: This day wasn�t happening. It was there though, warm and looked inviting like spring, so I hatcheted away a forest of itchy, reddish beard scruff, took a shower and just generally tried to at least be amiable with the notion of existing. I took a walk down the road, picked up some smokes and popped into the comic shop. Those bastards had decided to mark down all these loose bits of indy titles. Four comics, 2 trade paperbacks = $3.00. Ah sweetness. I was so self-satisfied that I had to have a milk shake, yes I did. And I felt good even though it wasn�t easy getting myself to this point. I�ve been trying for awhile to figure out how to say this. Last Thursday, I didn�t just fall �off the wagon�, I had a full tilt relapse. It was a jag, a bender of benders that lasted up until Friday. I have been in hell, basically, for an extended visit. I can�t find the words to express just how awful and frustrating and horrible it was which leads me to the actual unraveling of my body, and a landslide of guilt. My kitchen table is a wasteland of garbage: empty cans, packs of cigarettes, two liters, and vodka bottles. There�s at the very least, one fifth for each day of the past week. Whatever has fallen to the floor, or been thrown to the floor, is still there. And I�ve scarcely been out of the house or eaten for that matter. My body is weak, my arms and hands shake and spasm. It destroys my appetite, and then destroys me. In the last few days, it, (my body), finally gave out. I kept noticing I was hungry, but recalled having eaten something only to realize that had been a day before. The sun came up, the sun went down. It was an endless daze where I worked as hard as possible to not think, or feel, or be. I had no idea what I was doing, I surrendered to it completely. Blankets went over blinds, the phone was disconnected and regardless if it was day or night, a steady flow of vodka was introduced to my system and not in drink form either. I didn�t tell anyone, I didn�t talk to anyone, didn�t pay any bills, look for any jobs, buy any groceries, (except for liquor and cigarettes), no laundry, no cleaning, no anything. I was alive, but dead. I was dead and didn�t want to be alive. I didn�t exist. And Friday afternoon, when the most recent fifth finally ran out, I was too physically weak to go the two blocks to get another, and that was the only window of time that reason had a chance to intervene. So then I waited: for the legs to become too weak and wobbly to walk, for my head to hurt too much to sit up, for my stomach to catch up to all the damage, for the hot and cold sweats, the shaking, the bizarre, disorienting, sensitivity to light and sound and knowing there would be no respite, because when I withdrawal, I can�t sleep and that it would be this way for about the next 24 hours. And through all this, the awareness of what I�d done, the days I�d lost, the guilt and regret beating whatever was left of my brain into a pasty pulp. It�s still more than I can think about right now. I look at my life, I have no idea where I�m going, I have no idea what I�m doing. And to be so socially incompetent. Living is an ordeal, happiness is beyond me. If pain makes you beautiful, then I must be gorgeous�
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