(the) Jebbica

You and me

Have a disease

You affect me, you infect me

I’m afflicted, you’re addicted

You and me, you and me

So, I’ve been thinking a lot about addiction lately.  It seems I am being reminded of it constantly.  This weekend, one of my favorite artists, Mark Linkous of Sparklehorse, shot himself in the heart.  He dealt with alcohol and substance abuse for his entire career.  Today, I read that actor Corey Haim has died of an apparent drug overdose.  And last night, I finished reading A Million Little Pieces by James Frey, which is a memoir by a man who overcame his addictions to crack, alcohol, glue, gasoline, and pretty much every other kind of narcotic apart from marijuana without using the 12 Step Program.  If you remember, this book was controversial because it came out that quite a few details had been embellished upon, but personally, I didn’t care.  What matters to me is that someone had a problem, a serious problem, and he was able to beat it.  He got better.  I don’t care if every other detail was imagined or true.

I also find myself really getting into watching Intervention on A&E.  I am fascinated by these people, people who start out with a harmless little drink here or party there and wind up completely destroying their life and the lives around them.  I am fascinated by their family members who enable them despite being constantly hurt by them, thinking they are helping them.  I’m fascinated by the opportunity of redemption.  Their stories have a way of getting to me more than other types of sob stories, and I’m not really sure why.  I don’t suffer from addiction, and I don’t really know anyone who has.  I had one friend who might have, but sadly, he died before anyone could really find out.  I knew another woman who was severely mentally disturbed and struggled with substance abuse, but her death was more of a relief to most of the people around her.  But the people on television, I find myself caring for deeply.  I remember watching an episode on a guy named Lawrence a couple of years ago.  Lawrence was an alcoholic, but he didn’t think so.  He was young and well-liked, handsome and successful.  And in the end, instead of getting better, he died.  It really seemed like it was going to end on a hopeful note, and it didn’t.  I cried for a whole day.  My heart still hurts for Lawrence and his family.

I think that artsy-types are predisposed to addictive behavior.  The next book on my list that I’ve started reading is On the Road by Jack Kerouac.  Kerouac: died of alcoholism.  How many writers, artists, and musicians wind up dying by way of alcoholism, drug overdose, or suicide?  When I joined the Facebook group on AvPD, something I struggle with, I observed that almost everyone in that group was either a writer or an artist.  Almost every single person.  I can understand this, because I struggle with it.  You don’t know what to say, you can’t find the courage to say things out loud.  So you write them down.  Real life doesn’t have a backspace button.  The keyboard does.  Pencils have erasers.  You can’t erase something that’s been said audibly.  You’re good at grammar because you’re afraid you’ll be made fun of if you aren’t.  So, being a writer kind of comes naturally.

I’m guessing with other personality disorders, there are things predisposing people to different types of professions.  To be disturbed is to be creative.  They go together.  So I guess, in a way, I worry that since I’m kind of an artsy-type, am flawed, and am socially stunted, I might be at risk.  Sometimes, life goes your way.  But then the other half takes over.  Life gets to be too much to bear.  Life sucks, and it’s hard.  You look for something to take the pain away.  You could deal with it, or you could erase it.  The more you put it off and try to mask it, the worse everything will get, and death will come sooner.  Personally, I feel like this sometimes, and I will go and maybe drink a little and get silly and feel better.  Then the next day I feel crappy because I drank, but I will feel better overall about my problem and won’t feel like doing it again for awhile.  Other people just don’t have that off-switch, I suppose.  For me, when I really need to escape, I don’t need drugs or alcohol.  I need books, music, or television.  I need to get away from my life and enter someone else’s world.  I’m not physically destroying my body this way (except for the fact that I could probably be exercising instead), but it’s still an escape.  A vacation from life in the comfort of my own home. 

If we really look at ourselves, do we really all have darkness inside and vices that are used?  Is there a little James Frey, Mark Linkous, and Corey Haim in all of us?  I am starting to think there might be, and that’s why these people touch my heart so deeply.  But as Frey observed in his memoir, how you go about handling things has to be a decision that you make.  You have to make a decision each and every time: I am going to deal with this.  I am not going to opt for this chemical enhancer, despite the escape it provides.  Get on it, get over it, and get away from it.  That’s the way to handle problems, in my opinion.  And if you use something and it gets to the point that you can no longer function in the “real world”, then you need to get away from it, and don’t ever touch it again.  It’s hard, but it’s possible.  I am convinced that anyone can be redeemed, truly redeemed, if they want to be.  They have to be.

The National Alcohol and Substance Abuse Drug Addiction Help and Information Center

Lyrics: “Infected” by Bad Religion

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• Corey Haim Dead: Died Of Apparent Overdose At 38 (huffingtonpost.com)

photo credit: KiSS_Ze_CHeF

When it comes to doing things, I am a tale of two girls.  Part of me is a planner.  As you can see from my wedding ideas, I can be someone who is very OCD and wants to make sure that every little detail is perfect.

 The other part of me, however, is a free spirit and spontaneous.  Let’s just go and see where we end up and let the chips fall where they may!

 As you can guess, these two halves don’t always mesh well together.  The spontaneous half of me thinks that planning every little detail will just set me up for disappointment when things don’t actually go my way.  But the OCD side thinks that going with the flow is a big time-waster, and I want to make the most of my time. 

 So, this is the inner struggle that my brain starts having when I hear we have a chance to go to Disney World next weekend. 

Disney World!!!!

When you wish upon a star
Makes no difference who you are
Anything your heart desires
Will come to you

If your heart is in your dream
No request is too extreme
When you wish upon a star
As dreamers do

Fate is kind
She brings to those who love
The sweet fulfillment of
Their secret longing

Like a bolt out of the blue
Fate steps in and sees you through
When you wish upon a star
Your dreams come true

I’m going to Disney World!!  It’s funny, I knew I had friends who have worked at Disney World for years, but it’s never occurred to me to ask them if they could get free tickets.  So, I’m super-excited about a semi-road trip with the girls.  But honestly, I don’t care where we go, as long as it’s not here. Or Baghdad. 

 My worry is, however, that I am not going to be able to merge my two vacation sides seamlessly.  How can you put Martha Stewart and Janice Joplin in one body and ask them to cohabitate and get along?  Can I allow myself to actually relax?  Can we still do the things that would warrant a 9 hour drive each way without me turning into an uptight and frazzled emotional train wreck?

 Give me a few minutes at the Magic Kingdom.  I’m sure I’ll be fine.

It’s funny the topics of conversation that come up among drunken friends.

We were at a friend’s house after Saturday karaoke, as has become typical of our weekends.  Sing karaoke, then play Rock Band.  Only this week, it was strange, because once we got to our friend’s house, he decided he wanted to go to the gay bar with my BFF’s sister, who was celebrating her 21st birthday, and her friend.  “It’s cool, y’all can totally hang out here while I’m gone!” he assured us.  Which, I totally think is weird.  Especially since I’m always accusing him of being a serial killer because his house is so neat.

So here we were, my best friend, her husband, The Boyfriend, and me, at someone else’s house.  Left all alone to snoop through his things and drink all of his liquor.  Which we said we weren’t going to do, since my cousin’s birthday party was the next day, and I was in charge of orchestrating it.  “ONE beer”, we said before we ever went over there.  And a  Blue Moon with orange (my ultimate favorite) was all I had (well, that and a splash of Bailey’s in milk, but that doesn’t even count).  Rock band got old after one song.  My BFF fell asleep instantly.  I was wired from karaoke, but very bored. There were no playing cards in the house, so we tried to play Quarters.  Turns out, Quarters is even more boring than Rock Band when there is no one to play with you.

Eventually, The Boyfriend and Husband of the BFF  knocked back about half a bottle of Maker’s Mark, and conversations turned to religion, people we knew, this, that.  Isn’t it funny how small town we are?  Isn’t it funny that the person whose house we’re at was Jessica’s first kiss, and his ex-wife used to date Jessica’s ex-boyfriend? And then, of course, we had to go there.  The place I try to avoid.  My life is in a better place now.  I don’t want to revisit that time and be reminded of the fallacies of man, especially these fallacies, which if thought enough about can cause me to totally lose my faith in humanity. Oh, what? We’re going there anyway? Shit.

The Ex.  It’s something I try not to think about. Things did not end well.  But, since this is such a small town, everyone knows everyone, everyone has dated everyone, and you cannot go into Wal-Mart without running into at least one ex-boyfriend.  Now, this is not to say I’ve dated a lot of guys.  I’ve dated like…four guys seriously.  I’ve been on a couple of first-and-last dates.  I can count the guys I have kissed on my fingers.  I have been in what I considered love twice.

The first time, I was nineteen.  We met at a church hayride. We both worked at Wal-Mart.  I had never met someone who seemed so pure and good.  He made me feel like a princess.  We always did inventive things on dates.  Nine-and-a-half months into our relationship, I lost my virginity.  I was waiting for marriage, but I was convinced that this was The One.  I was sure that he would ask me to marry him.

He didn’t. (more…)