I went to a sporting event last night, with one of my favorite girlfriends. I’d asked her if she wanted to do that before I’d really committed to 30 days, and then I was committed to 30 days by the time I bought tickets for the two of us. Walking into the stadium, we decided to first look into getting some greasy, salty food, then beer for her. She asked if I was still doing the abstinence thing, as I’d told her last weekend at the opening of her art exhibit that I was staying dry. I answered in the affirmative, though I wanted to say, “Nah. I had over a week, I feel good and cleansed.” It was so freaking difficult to wander through the stadium concourse and talk myself out of getting a beer. Sporting events are not what they were in my youth with only Miller Lite or some other insipid crap. No, no. There’s a nice variety of imports and microbrews. Had it all been the Budweiser scene, I might not have thought twice about whether I wanted one. When we got to our seats, it was easier and better. After some of the game had transpired, I didn’t even care that I didn’t have beer.
My girlfriend only had two beers all evening. We chatted about my endeavors on the way home, and I admitted there were moments that were really fucking difficult and she said, “I think it would be for anyone.” And she confessed that she thinks she needs to do 30 days too, and she’s afraid that she can’t do it, and being afraid that she can’t, she knows that means she probably really should do it, and knowing that she probably can’t, she also doesn’t want to try (and fail). It was an interesting conversation. I don’t know if she’s “normal” in regards to drinking or has her own issues with it like I do with my drinking, but it was reassuring to hear her opinion that anyone who drinks socially would struggle to go a month dry.
Today is a blah day. I didn’t sleep well, having gone to bed late after riding around on public transit for what seemed like hours, then walking two miles home. The train that comes in closest to my house wasn’t going to depart for another 30 minutes after I arrived at the station, so I took another train, departing right away, that got me into an adjacent neighborhood only to have to walk the dark streets alone at night. As I passed my regular station on my way home, the “late” train that I didn’t want to take pulled in.
The day is also blah because the SO texted to ask after me and to inquire if he could spend the night. I waffled, because I haven’t had time to do any of my work this week. I’m an artist, as is he — we exhibit and occasionally sell and all that shit. I remarked upon being blah and he asked what was going on and I said, “I feel stupid and worthless and ugly and very what-is-the-point about most things.” He responded with “the symptoms of depression” and began inquiring about whether I’d found a psychiatrist and should my meds be adjusted to complement my therapy and so on and so forth. His ex-wife is a sufferer of severe depression so he’s no stranger to being involved with it from the outside, but you know… I didn’t really feel depressed until he said that and now I feel like shit and would dearly like for him to fuck off. Many, many years ago, I was hospitalized for depression, a handful of times. The psychiatrists then spoke as though I’d always be in and out of institutions and I never really recovered from feeling like a bug under a magnifying glass, there for the scrutiny of others, existing for them to study and “repair.” His probing feels like prying and I don’t want to talk about it with him. At all. Plus, I feel like there’s a certain arrogance in his advising me on things. It’d be like me advising him on how to take care of his penis. I’ve had experience with his penis, it plays a certain role in my life, but I don’t have a penis, so I can’t really know what that’s like. (Though I wish I did know what it was like to pee standing up in the woods, because I really, really envy that ability.)
I don’t want people telling me to go back to a psychiatrist or have my medication adjusted or anything. I want them all to fuck off. For one thing, I don’t like being that stereotype — woman, late 30s, depressed, drinking problem. How prosaic. Another thing is that I don’t really like living life enshrouded in a filmy haze of quasi-numbness, delivered daily in pill form. It sucks. And it plain old pisses me off. I work out. I eat leafy greans; I drink almond milk. I’m not drinking alcohol. I haven’t done drugs in years. My lifestyle habits are so much healthier than most people I know, so where do they, psychiatrists included, get off telling me what I have to do to be healthy?
All the same, I will call the psychiatrist my psychologist recommended and see about scheduling a consultation, even though I am sure this psychiatrist is a useless asshole like so many others. I’ll do it simply because the filmy haze is certainly better than planning the end of my days. But it still pisses me off.