See Jane Sober

Sometimes, when I'm alone with my thoughts (which is not as much as you might think - I steal moments during gym time), I wonder what made me this way.

I know I feel stunted or angry when I think about what my college boyfriend(s) said to me, but sometimes I can't remember what they said. And sometimes I don't even think it was them. It was other males I ran in to, who were associated with them. I remember that one told me to get in the kitchen and do dishes, because I was a woman. I remember another's roommate. He was a beast. A huge, hairy, chauvinistic, asshole beast.

He thought I needed to be "disciplined" because I told him to "fuck off" one day when he was ordering me to pressure a rushee who he considered to be dorky to NOT pledge their fraternity. Within earshot of said rushee. Who I thought was very sweet. For the next three weeks, all he said to me was "fuck off." Oh, he did me the honor of varying tones, but he humiliated and ignored me until he launched a verbal tirade against me with a huge laundry list of all my faults while we were at the pub on campus. During a very public lunch. I could tell he enjoyed berating me, as his voice strengthened and resonated over the songs on the jukebox while he nearly shouted out all my faults. I was a child. I opened my mouth without thinking. I had no right to speak to him that way. It was his place to show me my place, and on and on until I couldn't have left the scene if I wanted to - my legs were frozen with defeat.

Even writing about this, I feel the heat of anger rise up in my gullet like too much kimchi. Had my 30 year old self known him, the self-imposed "disciplinarian" of my 16 and 17 year old self, I'd tell him to shove it up his ass. And may be some more few choice words. If I saw him now? I'm not so sure. He's a lawyer for his dad now.

It seems like lost time, that I feel so angry about this, now, but I guess it's because I haven't processed it. Just tucked it away, like a bad secret. The humiliation. It was easy to drink him away in the big easy. You just had to nose yourself up to the bar. Which I did, again and again, and again. Because if I was drunk, then I could pretend that I didn't feel so small.

When you start drinking to hide something, it's easy. But I didn't start that way. By this time, I'd already wrapped myself around vodka and OJ's. I found intoxication intoxicating.

I just read a book, recently "SMASHED", about a girl who drank heavily from 14 to 23. I couldn't relate, which I found surprising. She drank to escape. The first time I picked up a drink? It was for fun. I WAS FUNNY. I WAS CHARMING. I WAS BEAUTIFUL. BOYS wanted to kiss me (which is an entirely different motivator), and girls wanted to be my friend.

I guess the liquid courage took a turn when I started encountering people like Mr. Lawyer, who acted out of maliciousness. Then I got angry, and that's when I got mean. Another night, another demon.

Jane Says: Could you look me in the eye?

I think sometimes that I drank to numb the emotions that I feel roiling up beneath the surface. Today, a student that I have particularly struggled with all year did something amazing. He read. Out loud. By himself. Sounding each syllable out until he was able to hear the word in his head. When he decoded it, he'd shout it out, in exclamation! The light in his eyes inextinguishable. The class stood and gave him a standing ovation, and I was so proud of him that I almost cried. I had to turn my head and blink really fast to chase away the tears.

I don't like feeling like that. It makes me vulnerable and susceptible. I like to be in control of EVERY.SINGLE.ONE. of my emotions, even the good ones.

Sometimes I am so struck with the simplicity of my relationship with Dick and the happiness that it brings me, that I'll feel myself start to well up in the grocery store while we're picking out condiments. And then I feel stupid. When we're alone, and I can bury my neck in his collarbone and just inhale, then I don't feel so naked.

But also as proven yesterday, I am just as likely to anger quickly. And I suppose this is something that I will deal with in time as well.

I didn't realize how much I was using myself up by partying and partying and partying until I went to work today, well rested, relaxed. The kids were amazing. Yes, we had our normal challenges, but my tolerance for their age increased a million times over. Instead of feeling frustrated I was laughing. Instead of feeling attacked, I was guiding. And when I realized what I had been doing to myself, and them, I felt terrible.

And sad, because I think I've been robbing the kids of who I REALLY AM since December, when I started trying to work two jobs and be super fun and super wife and forgot about super teacher. I can't cry over spilt milk, but I can feel badly about it, and I do.

Well part of reading this chronicle over and over and OVER again is painful, because I am the type to expel and (what I thought was getting) rid (of), to read it repeatedly is bizarre. Maybe it is like a bee sting. I will read it so much that it will no longer affect me, but it will be there in truth, my words, lest I forget and feel tempted to erase. Again.

Jane Says: Build a little birdhouse in your soul.

Before, when I drank, I felt helpless to combat "drama" in my life. Feeling that I caused it, indubitably in one of my drunken stupors, I accepted whatever anxieties or guilt I felt as my penance. It came to a point where I couldn't put a glass to my mouth WITHOUT feeling guilt, sure as the sun would rise that if I drank I would indulge in some form of assholery. 9 out of 10 times I was right.

Now that I am not drinking, I anger easily when I get overly emotional. I am NOT drinking. I SHOULD be in control, my inner voice thunders as I feel the heat of rage wash over me. My father told me that I should not concern myself with happenings outside my sphere of influence. Sometimes I feel like an omnipotent octopus, because when I am overwhelmed or angry, that motherfucking ant crawling up your leg in Kansas is within my sphere of influence. Reality seems to run from me, like my student PJ. He spoke no English and remained just out of my reach, trotting as I stumbled frustratedly behind him in my platform flipflops until I had unwittingly and unwillingly escorted him home. Except this time, maybe I'm stumbling myself to a better place. And instead of his parents waving thankfully at me, there's Dick, secure in the knowledge that yes, Virginia, we will stay married another day.

Today, Dick had a rough day. He was hot and frustrated, and although I tried to remain cool and supportive, I lost that struggle quickly. Whereas I was and am smart enough to view the situation from an observant standpoint, I was not calm enough to absorb his worries quietly. No ma'am, I got just as pissed off as he was, if not more, accused him of getting me worked up, and then pushed him away when he tried to kiss me. Apparently, maturity was NOT what was for dinner.

I was supremely upset that after my first weekend of not drinking, for which I wanted a quiet, peaceful, relaxing break, I got an emotional roller coaster. A little one, you know the green dinosaur that the little kids ride barely capable of flipping your stomach up into knots compared to what I am used to, but a ride all the same.

An old boss told me once that when it comes to relationships, you need to worry when you don't feel anything. Anger and Love are close relatives, in terms of the fire in your stomach. Especially when you love as passionately and foolishly (until Dick, of course) as I do.

Last year when I quit drinking, I found that it was not (as I had previously imagined) the source of all drama in my life. There was still turmoil and conflict that fell woefully short of my sphere of influence. I lost a friend due to a remark I had overheard at a school function. I was guilty by association, but her shame and following anger included me. Because I could not stop the bad, I picked up the bottle with the misgivings that it didn't matter whether I was drunk or not. Shit was going to happen to me. If I was lubricated, at least I would laugh. Or pretend not to care, instead of letting it eat me up like I eventually did. What I DID find, was that even though I tittered over tequila or cried into my Corona, I didn't process. I just swallowed. Hence, the whole non-alcoholic obsession.

I realize now that, yes, shit will happen. What not drinking for me does is gives me control over my facilities so that I can hopefully, healthily deal with whatever life decides to BOWL my way.

Jane Says: You take the good, you take the bad, you take them all, and then you have...

Today was hot.
Drink cold beer at the pool hot.
And I did all these things, except drink the beer.
And you know what? In this heat? If I drank I'd probably pass out.
No, instead my libation of choice was pelegrino and pomegranate, a swanky name for which I have not come up with yet. Gimme a while.
I lazed on Jack and Jill's balcony as the boys golfed and Jill slept, nursing a cold.
To Jill's credit, she seems to be over the whole ordeal, about which I am EXTREMELY relieved. I just don't know that I could've taken any more.
"How do I say that I don't want to talk about it politely?" I worried to Dick as we were on our way there.
I needn't have worried.
Although, now that we are older, I wonder if we really have that much in common. We reminisce a lot, but were we ever really the same? The same enough to be friends?
When I traveled frequently, languages bound me to strangers. Now that everyone speaks my language, I don't know what compels me to enter relationships.
I just know now that it is NOT a drunken stupor.
Although, I have met some interesting people that way.
And some not so good for me people. My first husband proposed when we were completely shitfaced. I said yes, stupidly. We all know how that turned out. THHHPPTTT.
Tomorrow I will relax some more.

Jane Says: I like cold beverages.

I think this is the first weekend where I remember feeling so relaxed during the evening, knowing that I will not go out and make a drunk ass out of myself tonight.

I have a coworker who knows me - she came up to me this Friday and said, "What are YOU going to do this weekend?" having seen dishevelled me on the verge of a nervous breakdown last Monday. I just said, "NOTHING," with a huge smile on my face.

Any positive for me at this point is good.

Jane Says: Whip it GOOD.

This morning was bad. Exceptionally bad. Last night, when Dick came home from work he wanted me to talk to Jill. My stomach seized up with fear and guilt and anger, and I just lay in bed there a long time before I fell asleep.

This morning it was panic-attack inducing. I lay in the bed curled in the fetal position, alternately feeling like I wanted to vomit and cry. I was angry that I felt as if I had played with my old friend Al last night when really, all I indulged in was a little OJ and some reruns.

Dick sensed my panic and told me to call her.

I refused and instead turned to my Desperate Housewife routine. The one where I cleaned and cleaned and cleaned scrubbing at imaginary stains on the stove and walked around in circles until I finally burst out into tears.

During the week, when I have my job to divert me, and people who know that I AM GOOD. My INTENTIONS ARE GOOD, suround me, I am okay. On the weekend? When it is just me and horrible things that I have done and said are trampling through my head? Holy SHIT BATMAN. The word of the day is BASKETCASE.

I finally untensed enough to tell Dick what was the matter. "I can't believe that she would intentionally do that to me." PART of my neuroses is that I have NEVER felt good enough for any of the men I have been involved with. Some of them have directly lead me to that conclusion, and some of them, I just took it upon myself to convince them of that. The fall from the pedestal is a long way down, my friend. Look, if I jump for you? We'll save both ourselves some trouble.

What this has to do with Jill is that she CAN'T understand why Dick is with me. She is the person who I have been most honest with here, and she doesn't see why he would stay. THAT fucks with my head, considering all our dinners and talks. When I feel broken. I feel like she's right. There must be something that she knows that would change his mind. There must be something that she knows that if I told him would IMMEDIATELY make him divorce me. Do not pass GO, do not collect $200.00.

I tell him this. He says, "No, you told me everything." And in my crazy head I think "Did I?" Did I tell him everything terrible that I have done and said and lived? And the guilt bubbles up inside me like 3 day old Hellman's left out on our back porch.

But he knows that I take these turns off the deep end. That I feel so poorly about myself that I need him to stroke and stroke and stroke, and damn baby, aren't your hands tired? We spend the day together, him gently prodding until I can laugh and feel like I can leave the house without peeing on myself (my panic attacks, they're GRRREAAT!).

I even walked through the Wine Section of the Grocery Store slowly, admiring the bottles without trailing my hands over them, bidding goodbye to old friends. "It doesn't bother me. That much," I told him. And to be honest, not drinking right now doesn't bother me AT ALL. It's wondering if I'll be 89 years old and still not drinking. But I can deal with not being psychic right now.

I told Dick that I didn't want to broach the subject with Jill, because I didn't want it to be "an issue". She helped me get on my feet here, for which I am eternally grateful. We're leaving soon. Mother always told me to make a graceful exit. I'm aspiring to that.

New Drug of Choice: Sparkling Water and Pomegranate Juice. Who knew you could spend just as much money on NON-Alcoholic beverages?

Jane Says: She gets mad and she starts to cry. She takes a swing but she can't hit. She don't mean no harm.

Part of the reason that this started is that I find myself unable to say what I want. The words run through my head, but they just get stuck somewhere inbetween my brain and my tongue. When I get angry I just internalize it.

I used to have what I called the slow burn. At the time of the incident, I wouldn't be angry. I'd think I was ducking it (like water off a duck's...) - And then four or five days later, I'd be livid. LIVID. With a CAPITAL LIV.

After a couple drinks? Thar SHE BLOWS! She is pissed off watch her roar. The other day when I was talking to my mother, she she said that I was a MEAN drunk. MEAN. And I believe her. I've said so many hateful things in my life that it is disgusting.

When I was younger, I said these hateful things to my first boyfriend. We tore each other apart, we did, we did, and I've never recovered since. He is not fully to blame. There were three, who took my little 16 year old self and verbally pummeled her into low self esteem pulp. I lashed out verbally, seeking out the psychological leg and intentionally kicking it out from under him whenever we fought.

I don't blame him. We were young.

What I did learn, however, is that words are destructive. So I swallow them. I've done it for so long that I don't think I know how to healthily deal with my angry feelings. Over the years, after swallowing all that anger? I had no release. I thought I had them processed and digested until I drank, and then I would just become this hateful angry girl spewing insults ceaselessly.

Which leads me to now. I am still really upset with Jill. We are supposed to spend a good chunk of the weekend with her and Jack, and I just DON'T WANT TO. I am upset that she insinuated on several occasions that Dick should divorce me. I don't want to be analyzed and poked and prodded.

Dick thinks I'm overreacting, but after several emotional e-mails back and forth where I was informed that she thought my life depended on me quitting drinking, I'm just over it. OVER IT! How much of this do I have to take? When do I get to say enough?

Yes, I know you were uncomfortable around me when I was drunk, SEVERAL TIMES EVEN!, as you mentioned, but I channel Adam Sandler on this - isn't this something that could've been brought to my attention PREVIOUSLY?

I know that I can't just say that I want to change and expect people who have known for me a while to say, "OKAY!" I expect skepticism and anger and what not, I can accept that. What I cannot accept are the speculations about my relationship.

It takes a strong man to stand by me. Whether he chooses to or not is none of your damn business.

Which leads me back to where I am. In search of a healthy way to channel negative feelings without the alcohol. I go to the gym. I write. Maybe I should become an adrenaline junkie?

Jane Says: It's Looking LIKE RAIN.

In the minutes that I have to lollygag around my house before work, I feel okay. Today I wasn't AS shaky, AS crack-addict-y. I can only hope it will pass altogether. In a recent e-mail, Jill said that she knew it was going to be hard for me to quit cold turkey. I don't think so. You make a choice, you stick to it. I chose Dick. I'll stick to it. I STICK TO DICK! Only one who finds herself funny, party of one?

I guess that it's been easy for me to make that choice because my job makes me directly responsible for 24 children. I AM old enough to know that you don't screw with your job. So from Monday to Friday, I'm Polly Professional.

At first, that made me feel like I had multiple personalities, because I was so quiet, accomodating, and the "yes" girl at work. Jump? Sure, hop, hop, hop.

And then on the weekends, it got worse, because I worked with Dick at a restaurant which required more of the same.

So WHEN I chose to let loose, I just got drunk. And angry. Everything that I had been avoiding during the week would just come STOMPING and ROARING out and it was a big, dynamic "FUCK YOU" to everything that had happened in my life during the weekend.

And it didn't solve a damn thing.
Most times it usually just created more drama.

I started becoming "that girl". An old friend called me last night and repeatedly asked me, "So, no new drama?" and I just said "No," and told her that I quit drinking with the realization that to her I was THAT GIRL. And I just don't want to be her anymore.

I feel optimistic Friday morning, but we'll see how it is later on today. When I'm home alone without Dick. Maybe I'll use all the beer in the fridge to wash my hair.

Jane Says: They call her a killer, and they call her a sinner, and they call her a whore.

Hi. My name is Jane. I'm 30 years old, and after 19 years of drinking, I've decided to quit. There have been too many drunk nights, too many drunk fights, and just too many too many's for me to make excuses about anymore.

I have another blog, but too many people that know me read that for me to feel anonymous and comfortable shedding the beer goggles. Or wine goggles, as it were.

The last five days have been rather bizarre for me, painful. Irritating.

I guess the culminating event was when we went over to Jack and Jill's Sunday. I was so hung over all I could do was run to their bathroom and puke and then stumble back to the couch. Jill said that alone would be enough to deter her from drinking, and I decided that she was right. However, Jill is not content to let one remark sit. So I just took it and continue to take it, without saying a damn word - which is why I glued my hand to the bottle in the first place. I NEVER SAY A DAMN THING! Maybe I should send my sweaters to her so she can sew a big, fat "A" on them. It can double for alcoholic and adulteress.

Well, you say...you didn't mention that, Jane. That's different. I know, we're working on that too. And by we, I mean me and drunk Jane, who I hope to send on a long trip soon, soon, soon. Drunk Jane gets drunk and kisses people. Boys, girls, dogs, doesn't really matter - it's just something to fill the void. Maybe if my husband had the foresight to buy me a blow up doll, or really just one of those hair dresser barbies would do, I could just take it out and about with me and kiss it. Drunk Jane has a trigger, too. She comes out and plays when I least expect it.

Dick said that either you change or you don't. And he's right. I change. I am changing. I will change. That's not to say that watching the episode of LOST with the unbelievable amount of alcohol on it didn't make my mouth water. Oh, it did. The wine?

And I don't want to be one of those people. The "don't drink around me" people. I hate those people. I just want to be happy with who I am. Considering that my old friend AL has been such a negative influence in my life lately, I want him to fuck right the hell off. I've lost friends and relatives, jewelry and clothing, electronics and accessories, hours and minutes because of him. And honey, I ain't gettin' any younger. The clock's ticking.

So primarily, this'll just be my day to day. Like today, and the other days? I've been waking up feeling like a crack addict looking for a fix. Jumpy and shaky. If I were a hardcore alcoholic (I know I sound like I'm in denial, but...well, I'm not) I'd get it. I don't usually drink more than a glass a night (if that). Until the weekends, then honey, just IV me some champagne, 'cuz I used to put the shit away. Maybe I'm just stressed about the other stuff going on in my life. But, that's not for here.

I felt good today. Maybe like Jill was a little toxic - I dread her e-mails, now, because I feel like she's being condescending. But, if things are okay between Dick and I, Jill should butt out. Lord knows she has enough of her own problems, but I'm not trying to be that catty vindictive girl. Honesty is one thing. Kicking me when I'm down is quite another.

Night all. Tomorrow will be a better day.

I had quite a conversation with an elderly woman today. About her cat staring down a particular wild rabbit and some goose shit in the pool. Sometimes I wonder if I'm drunk without knowing it. High on life, baby, high on life.

Jane Says: I'm done with Sergio...