Hurtful Things
Today, as Dick and I sat watching the channels, an advertisement for the local AA group came up.
"You could go," he suggested. "It's tomorrow night."
"You want me to go?"
"You could. If you want. They have a very good group."
"How do you know?"
Turns out his friend from the other night told him the day after we had been out. Said I was mean. That he didn't want to ever go out drinking with me again. That I started out sweet and innocent and then just got mean. Said whatever I wanted.
I'd say that's a pretty fair assessment. Accurate.
Should be, since it's coming from a psychologist.
Still, that didn't stop the sting. The heat that came up my cheeks and made me want to disappear under the floor.
"Do you think I'm an alcoholic?"
"You said you needed help. That you couldn't do it by yourself."
My own words, back at me. Damn he's good.
He reaches for my hand, but I shy away, feeling sick. Instead of talking I busy myself with the little things: stuffing my mouth with edamame, readying for bed, removing my makeup.
"What did you say?" I ask him, some small part of me hoping that he would explain away my faults. Make it OBVIOUS to everyone else why I am THIS FUCKED UP. Or maybe I'm not, I just need an excuse for being mean.
"I said, 'oh.'"
Oh. Which really makes me wish my plane were leaving tomorrow. Even though I know you can't run away. But you CAN go where NOBODY knows your name.
When I told him that I wanted help, I meant that I wanted his help.
Dick, I want YOUR HELP.
It hurts my feelings that someone whom I barely know made this assessment and he listened.
He went through hurtful situation after hurtful situation with me, watched me drink myself into the toilet more times than I can count, and ask him for help and it was NEVER a problem.
Now he asks me what's wrong and I shut the computer, because I don't want him to read this.
I want a conversation to happen but I feel like I should just let him watch the Simpsons.
I want to go home.
He said that this was my home the other day. I don't feel like that.
"You could go," he suggested. "It's tomorrow night."
"You want me to go?"
"You could. If you want. They have a very good group."
"How do you know?"
Turns out his friend from the other night told him the day after we had been out. Said I was mean. That he didn't want to ever go out drinking with me again. That I started out sweet and innocent and then just got mean. Said whatever I wanted.
I'd say that's a pretty fair assessment. Accurate.
Should be, since it's coming from a psychologist.
Still, that didn't stop the sting. The heat that came up my cheeks and made me want to disappear under the floor.
"Do you think I'm an alcoholic?"
"You said you needed help. That you couldn't do it by yourself."
My own words, back at me. Damn he's good.
He reaches for my hand, but I shy away, feeling sick. Instead of talking I busy myself with the little things: stuffing my mouth with edamame, readying for bed, removing my makeup.
"What did you say?" I ask him, some small part of me hoping that he would explain away my faults. Make it OBVIOUS to everyone else why I am THIS FUCKED UP. Or maybe I'm not, I just need an excuse for being mean.
"I said, 'oh.'"
Oh. Which really makes me wish my plane were leaving tomorrow. Even though I know you can't run away. But you CAN go where NOBODY knows your name.
When I told him that I wanted help, I meant that I wanted his help.
Dick, I want YOUR HELP.
It hurts my feelings that someone whom I barely know made this assessment and he listened.
He went through hurtful situation after hurtful situation with me, watched me drink myself into the toilet more times than I can count, and ask him for help and it was NEVER a problem.
Now he asks me what's wrong and I shut the computer, because I don't want him to read this.
I want a conversation to happen but I feel like I should just let him watch the Simpsons.
I want to go home.
He said that this was my home the other day. I don't feel like that.
This entry was posted
on Monday, August 14, 2006 at 11:38 PM.
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