See Jane Sober

I have to leave soon, and I feel nervous and unsettled. In TRUE Jane form, I have left some packing for the last minute, and suddenly I remember why I used to do this drunk. Although, it was quite unpleasant when I got to said destination and opened my suitcase to find 3 pairs of underwear and a shirt and 30 pairs of shoes. But more relaxed, yes.

Dick says computer over there is spotty, so I have no idea what will happen. I will try to keep posting as often as possible.

I just really feel like I need to decompress.

Off I go, into the wild blue yonder. Or whatever the hell it is.

Jane Says: She needs wide open spaces.

Did I mention I'm claustrophobic?

All's quiet on this front. For awhile, at least.
The anxieties re: impending travel are quieted by everyday menial tasks.
I'm not scared about going.
I'm not scared about what will happen when I'm there.
I'm scared about what will happen to me if I have to leave.
I am the queen of co-dependency. We have ascertained that.
I do well without Dick for about 3 weeks, tops (HA!).
Then I just start to lose my shit.

I know that I should make it about me. About something I can live with. With myself.

I don't know how to do that.
I am so lonely without him that watching Jen and that stupid Ty character kiss on "Dawson's Creek" makes me pause. And sigh. And if that isn't scraping the bottom of the fucking barrel, I don't know WHAT is.

I feel uncomfortable because most of my "friends" are bloggers. For some reason, these people have chosen to stick with me through some VERY tough times. Unedited.

And the people I know in real life come and go.

You might say they're not my real friends, but maybe I just pushed too hard. I don't know.

I take a lot.

Sometimes I think it is too much.

I try to do, too. But I just feel so incompetent at it.

I do the wrong things.

What if I can't "talk" to you while I'm over there?

Then what?

Jane Says: I wish I were a trinity, so if I lost a part of me, I'd still have two of the same from which to live.

I'm a smart girl, I know my habits. My bad ones, especially.

I think my worst one is that I am unable to just let myself be happy and content. I have a self-destructive streak that has more control over me than I have over myself. Because I let it, yes. I know. I don't know how to stop it.

Yesterday I was comfortable and happy and relaxed and responsible. My mom paid me a compliment. My counselor paid me a compliment, last Thursday. We went out to dinner with my cousin and I had a good time.

Today, I feel jittery, uncomfortable. I don't feel like I deserve to be complimented or to have a good time. And it is usually at this point that I will go out of my way to demonstrate that I'm not worth your time.

Maybe I'll show up at your house hungover. Maybe I'll make you feel second to a man. Maybe I'll drunk dial you, crying. Maybe I'll kiss somebody else. Maybe I'll tell you I think your husband is attractive (you know, in "that" way). Maybe I'll tell you that I wish you would die. Maybe I'll tell you that I hate you. Whatever it is I can do to make you dislike me as much as I dislike myself. And I'll go to great lengths, because I know how to get the job done.

When I meet new people, I'll go out of my way to SHOW them that THEY DON'T want to be friends with me. I lay out all my faults and flaws for them to see - like an "after" picture of a damaged body part. I tell them about the abortion. I tell them about the failed marriage. I tell them about the kissing. My latest label? That I am the Worst Wife Ever. If I were a dog, I'd be baring my teeth. Don't get involved with me, I'll only hurt you, irreparably. And it will be your fault, because I TOLD YOU SO.

I SEE that I do this.

I KNOW that I do this.

And, I am not guilt free after I accomplish the hurt. No, I torture myself. I can't eat. I can't talk. I am too ashamed to go to the gym, to blog, to interact. I feel like everyone can see my HORRIBLE ACT written on my face, and that they will judge my lapse in judgment. So I try to redeem myself. Or maybe I'll just pretend that I didn't know you at all.

I can feel that itch now. Like everything is going too well (like I am almost a "normal" human being), and I feel scared. It's an unsettling (but common) sentiment to feel like your life is out of control because you get drunk and you don't know what you are going to do next. It's horrifying when you're sober.

Make it stop. I want to get off.

Jane Says: I'm the B-R-A-T. She be Missy. We some dumb bitches who be fucking it up.

...bust a cap in yo' ass.

Not really, but that's just something that I always wanted to say. Seriously. I just can't imagine a time and a place in my life that it would be appropriate. Ever. And I've been thinking about this for dayssss.

Which I guess would be a good lead in for my thoughts.

I was pretty worked up about the driver's license. I thought it was a step backward. When I went to the counselor, I told her about it in detail. And she said that it was good that I stopped it. She gave me credit for stopping it. And it was something that never occurred to me. To look at the positive.

Every time that I talk to her, I feel liberated. There's just a little bit more quiet. Inside. There's less "What if, what if?" and more "Enjoy".

On the non-drinking front, I have noticed that I am much more relaxed. Rather than staring at other's drinks and salivating like some kind of fool and feeling angry, I am content with an O'Doul's. Which makes me think that I am/was so concerned with what others think/thought that I would do anything (including drinking liquid courage) to FIT IN. I think I did that constantly. Reshaped myself to fit in other's puzzles. To be the missing piece for everybody else. It made me feel wanted, I guess.

Now, I don't have to worry about my decisions being influenced by alcohol, because I know that I have made them with a clear mind. Muddled maybe, but definitely non-alcoholic. Which maybe makes me kind of boring.

Fido Dido says that "Normal is Boring", but I haven't felt this way in a long time.

Jane Says: I'm leaving, on a jet plane. Don't know when I'll be back again.

Today was enlightening (if you choose to put a positive spin on it. I'm trying).

I went to get a driver's license. Now, I've gone before. And when I surrendered my old license, they gave me an eye test. No big deal, right?

Right.

Unless you're me.

Last time I went with my Dad, I couldn't do the eye test properly. I sustained an injury to my right eye when I was in 7th grade that has since turned in to a cataract. Now, I don't understand the mechanics of this, especially since some doctors have told me that a scar NEVER turns into a cataract, but that's where I am now. They won't operate because it is not advanced enough, so I just live with it. I can see perfectly well with both eyes open, but when my right eye is forced to fend for itself, things are VERY BLURRY.

Well, when I looked into the little eye chart thingy, it separated your eyes. I couldn't see it. I heard the person next to me reading the first line and repeated exactly what he said. Thank God for small towns, because the charts were the same. My cheating was unnoticed. And I cheated. Another thing to heap piles of guilt on myself about. I am so much fun! Wanna come over?

When I went today, I noticed that there were not two machines adjacent to each other, but one. LONELY machine. Not to mention that Dick mentioned I might have to take a written test (he did when he surrenderd his license).

Lordy, lordy I was a BALL of nerves.

So anxious, in fact, that I gazed around looking for the bathroom. That's my first plan of attack - I always have to know where the bathroom is. Why? Because that's how my panic attacks manifested themselves. I had to pee. Even if I didn't. I'd stand in the bathroom for hours at a time, pulling my pants up and down, until I could leave. And that was the horrible part. I never knew when I would be able to leave. Eventually, I just had to know where the bathroom was. And even now, I still do a quick spot check. Just in case.

No bathroom. That I could see. And I didn't want to ask the lady, because then she would see the CRAZY written on my face, so I just stood and worried.

Worried so much, in fact, that my mom started rubbing my shoulders. Because I had knots. I shrugged her off, saying, "That's just the way I am." And if she's rubbing my shoulders in the DMV, then everybody else will SEE THE CRAZY!

And no one can see the crazy. Not unless I let you.

When the lady called me up there? And I had to do the test? It was only a seeing test. Not the written test. And you know what? I could see the letters. Perfectly. But no, I had to worry to Dick and worry to my Mom and worry. I knew later that it bothered me more than I thought it had, because when we went thrift shopping afterwards, I saw a big sign that said, "No Public Bathrooms", and I had to look across the street to see if I could see where there might be a bathroom before the nervous in my stomach and head stopped.

These are not good things.

And I can't really say why I don't want to be medicated. Only that when I was? I was afraid that I would be SO numb that I wouldn't know if I HAD to make an emergency exit to go to the bathroom. And it was worse.

This has got to stop somewhere.

Jane Says: Welcome to our OOL. Notice that there is No "P" in it. Please keep it that way.

Yeah, I realize the last post was kind of flippant. I think I was just so relieved that a professional (yes, I know all of us are professionals, my pretties, but the question is, professional whats?) told me that I was normal. Or told me just to stop analyzing things.

In my heart, I thought I was doing the right thing, trying to sift through history and such. She told me that the options were huge, and that I just needed to stop.

We discussed many things, among them eating disorders and OCD. We stayed on the topic for a good while, and I was surprised. She repeatedly touched on my eating habits, and I wondered why that was even a consideration, considering that I am among the throngs who go to the gym in quest of the "BODY". Inattainable as it seems, at times. I realize that I have lost weight recently, but it's because I've worked my ass off to do it.

We talked and talked about the boys, about sex, about everything, really.

I kept saying, and I don't know why, that sometimes I wished I could turn it off. My head. That that was why I exercised, because that was the only damn time I got a little peace and quiet around here, dammit!

She said that it was evident that I was mostly up in my head - something I have accused Dick of MANY times. She also said that I needed to live more in my heart, with my feelings.

But what it comes down to is that I am not comfortable with them. I can rattle off several situations where I have been made to feel incorrect or inconsiderate for my actions and feelings by people close to me, and I wonder if this has to do with it, but again, I'm not supposed to be analyzing, right? I'll just tell her about it, I suppose.

She said that right now I was AT RISK for wanting to drink again, or falling back into it, and DEAR LORD DO I KNOW THAT. I LOVE not being hung over, not being sick, not worrying that I made an ass out of myself (well, I do anyway, but when I'm not drinking I remember EXACTLY WHAT HAPPENED), but yesterday, I served my grandma a Corona, and I thought, "I could just take a little sip. Nobody would know." But I didn't.

And then later, my neighbor offered me jello shots (MY ABSOLUTE ALL TIME FAVORITE - Can't you tell? I'm even YELLING ABOUT THEM, THE JELLO-Y GOODNESS OF THE JELLO SHOTS. *DRRRRROOOOOLLLL*), but I just made that "no thank you" hand motion that I am famous for, even thought I felt like I wanted to Snuffleupagus that WHOLE tray.

I'm trying to Pavlov myself. Whenever I want a glass of wine, I drink the non-alcoholic crap. And it is crap. It's terrible. But I soldier through it, trying to convince myself that all wine tastes this assy and that I'm really not missing anything. Now, you and I know that's not true, but I'm trying to convince my binge tendencies otherwise.

The good doctor also said that she wasn't convinced that I shouldn't be medicated. For my anxieties. I'm a million miles from where I was, in terms of needing to know where the bathroom is and I'M GOING TO PEE ALL OVER THE PLACE when I get nervous, but there are still flickers, the expanding butterflies in my chest when I'm overtired and overstressed. Paxil would not be an option considering not 1 but 2 suicide attempts within a year. I still hold strong on no Pill for the PILL (that would be me), but I'm trying to be open to it.

I have concerns because I was so altered on the Paxil. A zombie. I've also seen the repercussions of suddenly not taking it, instead of weaning yourself from it, and that feels like an added stressor to me.

The shire beckons.

Jane Says: You're so afraid of what people might say, but that's okay because you're only human.

Sounds familiar.

Well, you're just not even go to believe what she told me to do.

STOP ANALYZING.

Canyoubelieveit?

It's probably one of the most liberating things I've heard. EVER.

I thought I was doing myself a favor by trying to figure out why.

I wasn't.

I guess I'll put that in my pipe and smoke it for awhile.

16 days until I leave to see Dick. Dear LORD I hope that I am able to stay over there with him. I just can't take this separation shit (and that is EXACTLY what it is) much longer. I should've been more aggressive, I think. I think I'm too passive, and that is why things "happen" to me, instead of me making them happen. If I had said, "Look, he's not coming without me." They either would've fired him, or let us come together. But we still would've been together. Yeah, did I say I was going to stop analyzing?

Good Night.

I got a call from my counselor today. I've never met her before (which is an odd feeling, considering the concentrated environments I've been living in) - she wants to meet tomorrow.

My mom told me to tell her about the Paxil. I assumed (wrongly?) that she wanted me to tell her in case they want to medicate me. Placate me. I DON'T want to be medicated. Both of my Paxil attempts ended with suicide attempts. Yes, there were boys involved, but I've been involved with many men and never considered ending my life. Paxil has been the only common denominator. Point being, I clammed right up on that lady, my mom. No pills for the pill, thank you very much. I know I shouldn't do that.

When I told her about the patterns, she asked if I was drinking. I was able to reply (truthfully) that I had quit. She said "Congratulations," but I felt as if maybe I were lying.

I don't know how I feel about drinking just yet.

When I was talking to Dick on the phone the other day, he said that we could take some Margaritas out on the boat.

I said I would be the designated driver.

He said, "You don't have to worry about that here - there's one lady that I've met at least five times who is drunk off her ass every time." I think he was telling me that no one would single me out "as the crazy girl" if I choose to drink, but I told him I don't want to be that "wild" girl. I don't have any control over what it is that is eating me up just yet. Or maybe I have a little. I'm not drinking. I WILL go to counseling tomorrow.

He said okay. I wonder if he ever gets tired of trying to make things easier for me. I wonder if I will ever find a place where I will be comfortable just being myself without alcohol. It's not progressing as quickly as I would like. I feel STUNTED. Drinking stunts your growth.

I will see her tomorrow at 2. For about 2 hours, she said.

I want to be honest with her.

Jane Says: I believe that if you are what you eat, I am cheap, fast, and greasy.
*Stolen lovingly from Larry the Cable Guy.

So, I don't want to write about "The Ricker" today, but I'll tell you what he did.

I was 11 when I was in 8th grade. Ugly, flat, awkward. And 11. Ricky and his twin, Pristine were 13 or so, and very popular. Popular kids prey on what is different. I was FREAKY different. But Ricky was cute, so I tolerated his assholeness.

We had chinese class together for three years, into our sophomore year. During that time, I grew up and out a little (A cups, at least, woo hoo!), and grew some independence. I didn't try quite so hard to have everyone like me, as much.

We went to the ballet when we were sophomores, as part of our Chinese class (I don't remember the correlation). I dressed up. Put on a bra, a black dress, and tied a pretty scarf in my hair. I wanted to look feminine. Ricky noticed.

He backed me into a corner. Put his nose in that space where my neck and my shoulder met, and told me I looked beautiful. He put his face close to mine, said he wanted to kiss me. I was breathless, scared. At 13, I was still the ugly duckling among my friends. The little sister. I hugged them every day, as tight as I could, but it was anything but sexual.

This, this was predatory, meant to initimidate. He ran his fingers right down the curve of my waist, let it hang there - knowing full well that his friends Zac and Yung Ho were standing behind him, laughing their asses off because he was making the little girl scared.

I was terrified. The older part of me wanted this attention to be earned and in earnest for the woman that I was becoming but his sneer told me that it wasn't.

Once he saw how nervous he made me, he never let me forget it. It was a game to him. I was a game to him.

Stupidly, I asked him to sign my yearbook, hoping in my naivete that he would write something like, "Keep Smiling," or whatever in the hell it is that kids write in each other's yearbooks.

He didn't.

He wrote about giving me orgasms and filling me up until I overflowed.

Words that made me feel small every time I read them. I wonder how I would feel if I read them now, but part of me is happy that Momma's got the attic stacked so high with boxes. I couldn't find them if I tried.

Hello!

It's another alcohol free day here, at chez Jane.

I was talking to Dick today about his job post, where alcoholism runs rampant. We knew this before we went out there, and that's why I knew I had to clean myself up. That, and I just don't think that I could live with myself if I kept on hurting him. There's a man there that drinks a bottle of WILD TURKEY a day. A. DAY.

And I think that therein lies part of my problem. I see people like that. I read books by people like that, and I think, "I don't have a problem. I'm not like that." But I have severed several relationships and lost several things because I was drunk. Which doesn't put me that far off, maybe.

I got out a box of OOOOOLLLLLDDDD pictures today, because I was looking for a particular hairstyle, and there are many happy pictures of me and (insert boy here) in them. Which started me thinking about my past.

I ended up talking to my mom about one of these guys in particular. I told her if I saw him right now, I would bite him. Take a big chunk out of his arm. And then I told her what he did to me. And it's nothing abusively physical. Largely mental, and written in my yearbook, for me to read year after year after year (which I did), and wonder what the hell I ever did to him, apart from being a young 8th grader who his sister hated. But it sticks with me. Because he's not the only one. There was a tribe of them. Boys, whose faces I will never forget, who I was terrified of. For years. And I wonder if maybe that's a motivating factor for me, with the kissing. Because for once I feel accepted and in control, if I initiate it.

But I want this to be a complete story, so I'll finish this tomorrow. When I can write exactly what he wrote in my yearbook and just be done with part of the whole fucking thing already.

Jane Says: Freebies, freebies, givin' up the freebies. Teenage hooker giving me the heebie-jeebies.

I always do this, whenever I am too embarrassed to face people. I just shut down. My mom checks on me to see if I want to get out, do something. She makes sure that I get out of bed, get dressed, and I do. Run normal errands and stuff, but I really just want to shut it off. Not myself, just the treading. The not knowing.

What makes me such a large black hole that I am the BIGGEST attention whore, EVER? Or maybe it's just needy whore. And not whore in the "whore-y" sense, but in the "hoar"d sense. It's not about sex. It's never been about sex, or desire - the kissing other people. Alcohol has made me more easily accessible and "approval" more easily achievable, but it's never been about lust or seduction. I can't take myself seriously naked. I don't expect anyone else to, either.

I don't know what makes me feel so worthless that I am afraid to talk to my husband because I am POSITIVE that there is one thing on this earth that I can tell him that will make him turn his back on me and walk out of my life. And I am sure I drive him nuts, because I ask him, repeatedly, "Did I tell you about this? And that time that I was SUCH A BAD PERSON THAT YOU COULDN'T POSSIBLY WANT TO BE WITH ME? No? What about this? Well surely this will show you..."

I don't even realize that I feel this way until I keep repeating the cycle. Again, and again, and again. It's been more frequent in the last five years, which signifies that I AM DOING SOMETHING WRONG. But I don't know what.

I just keep telling myself tomorrow is another day. Tomorrow is another day. But then a little voice in my head tells me back, "Maybe tomorrow will be THE day. When he leaves you for good."

Jane Says: Build a bridge and get OVER it.

I feel ugly and stupid right now. I don't really want to write about it, but I said that I would document everything truthfully, so here it is.
When I went to see my friend, I drank AGAIN. Way more than I should have. I did the same thing that I have been doing for so long that I don't know how to stop myself from doing it.
It was a difficult situation for me, being around a bunch of people who want you to "Drink, DRINK! DRINK!" so you can be more fun, without really knowing how harmful I am to myself when I do it.
It entailed having to tell Dick that I was drunk, again. That I kissed another boy, again. That I was an asshole, again. I don't understand WHY I do this to myself. After realizing that I would not be able to stop drinking if I stayed there, I just had to come home.
I drove home and told my mom that I was going to have to leave Dick because I lied to him about choosing him over alcohol. I said that I was many things, but that I wasn't a liar. I don't want to be a liar.
My mom said not to make rash decisions, and that I needed to be able to pick myself and dust myself off as many times as I needed to. That I was allowed, that nobody is perfect.
She also said that I needed to find out what is driving me to seek this kind of attention from other people. And that a professional could help. She said perhaps a lot of this was with me from birth, that my behavior was a lot like my grandmother's - which was shocking to me, as I have never seen her in that light.
I said that I felt like if even 1 person knew EVERYTHING about me, that they would find it far too ugly to *really like* me.
I said that was why I had kept teaching for so long, because those kids kept me sane, and I felt like they needed me, day after day after day.
She said that she needed me, and my dad needed me, and my grandma needed me, and so did Dick. She also said that they wanted me, and that there was a big difference between the two.
I drink when I feel uncomfortable. I feel uncomfortable a lot. The more uncomfortable I feel, the more I drink. The more I drink, the more uncomfortable I feel the next morning.
When I feel comfortable, here, I have no problems not drinking because I am okay.
I don't know how to do this.
I love my husband. I just feel like there's a black hole, sometimes, and I don't know where that feeling comes from.
I registered myself for counseling the other day. They should call me sometime early next week.
I'm trying to get my priorities straight. Myself straight.
Just save it, because I already know.

Jane Says: That I would be good, even if I lost myself.

You know, this not drinking thing, and this whole (air quotes, right here) being away from the husband thing, I get a lot of time to think. And talk. To my mother.

We were on our way back from performing numerous errands today that will only have to be performed repeatedly no matter how many times we do them because that's just how life is around here, when she mentioned that we would have to stop by and drop something off with a guy that's part of the tribe. A sub chief and jack of all trades.

"I wonder if John had that affair..." I mused.
"I told him to quit paying attention to you," my mom said. Apparently, I don't speak in code as well as I would like.
"What? You what?!"
"I told him to quit paying too much attention to you. He's a married man. You're a married woman."
"What did he say?" All I can say is at this point I was feeling rather mortified. Like when your parents get involved in anything that you don't want them to get involved in, especially since I never mentioned this to her, other than to say that he made me feel uncomfortable.
"I asked him if he hit on you. He said yes."
"Oh MY GOD! What did you say?
"I told him you weren't that kind of girl. And he said he knew that now."

I simmered for a minute, wondering what the HELL I had done to make him think that I would be "that kind of girl." I have not so much as WINKED at one of these men around here, yet he thinks I'm that kind of girl.

I think that's why drinking made such a great crutch for me. Whenever I came up here before and I was single, girls wanted to kick my ass, boys thought I was "that kind of girl." No matter that I hadn't dated any of the men around here, much less slept with them. No, no matter what I did, I was a whore. And one summer, because I was lucky, I got to be a crack whore. I guess you can tell that this bothered me.

Why? Because these people don't know shit about me. They're cousins of my cousins and friends of my friends. My family has chosen to make a life here, and every summer I get to come back and BE.A.WHORE. ARMY OF ONE. When I drank, I didn't care. It just made words like 'whore' and 'slut' cut a little less.

My mom always tried to teach me that if it isn't true, you shouldn't let it bother you. But I guess what I'm finding now is that it bothers me whether I drink or not. I just get pissed off AND VERBAL AND SOMETIMES VIOLENT about it when I drink.

But I don't know what it is. That I did. That would make him think that. THAT is what bothers me.

My mom says they're just jealous, but I think there's some contract you sign in the hospital before they hand over the baby that decrees YOU MUST SAY THAT. What would they be jealous of, for fuck's sake?

Blah. I'm really not that angry about that. Just perturbed by his remark. He should've known BEFORE.

Jane Says: We are family...