I’d rather not.
Well, I’d rather not do lots of things.
I’d rather not jump out of an airplane without a parachute. “Oh shit, is this gonna hurt!”
I’d rather not drink strychnine like Barry Lyndon’s tormented wife in the Kubrick film.
I’d rather not try to sing soprano. Or really anything. Not anymore. I blew out my not-bad voice long ago. Liquor and cigarettes.
Okay, but who asked me? No one. But here’s one for which I asked:
I’d rather not have to wait to hear from a Bergen County Superior Court Judge about the disposition of my motion to dismiss the permanent alimony that was awarded to my ex-wife in October 1998.
There it is. It’s happening on Monday, and today’s Friday. It’s 5:04 PM, and I feel like I’m on the edge of a major freak-out, panic attack, eating binge, or drunken episode. Now: let’s review those in something like reverse order. First, I’m a sober alcoholic. My last drink was at approximately 8 PM on January 13, 2000. Another way to look at it is to affirm that I went through my divorce with all the spiritual and mental failings of an active drunk. If I’d fought back, I might not be facing the weekend in front of me. As it is, I’m 15+ years sober. I’ve been told I was more fun when I was drinking. Perhaps. But I was also as volatile as fulminated mercury. Ka-boom!
Second, I occasionally binge-eat, but even that is pretty well under control. If I order Chinese take-in, for example, it will be a combination dinner of some kind. I’ll eat half of it and refrigerate the rest for the next night. Ordering two dinners costs me $21, tip included. I don’t consider this a Mr. Spendo extravagance. Not the way I cook, anyway. I could eat a quart of ice cream at one sitting, but I don’t.
Third, I haven’t had a panic attack in a long time, going back to when I lived in Pennsylvania and there was a minor earthquake. But I do remember the horror they brought when I had them. And I’ve written about them:
Panic attacks are latent. They’re always free for the taking of me.
And last…I don’t know precisely what a major freakout is anymore. Sexual promiscuity? Been there, done that. I don’t go there anymore. Throwing money around? Not really. I don’t have any, not after the alimony comes out and I’m left with about $900 to last me an entire month, including rent, electric, and cable. I wouldn’t get far on the rest, and I don’t.
Anyway, all I can do as I face the weekend and Monday morning is watch TV, read, pray, maybe write some more, and cherish my cat, Misha. He’s my link to sanity and to friendship, and I love him for everything that is him.
I hope it doesn’t snow. When it falls up here in western New England, it begins by looking like a Currier & Ives or Pieter Breughel painting, but it quickly turns to gray shit. It’s gorgeously depressing.
I hope I sleep well. Melatonin has proved to be my friend. But some nights even it doesn’t work, and I’m up at or until some ungodly hour examining my assorted shambles.
I’ve slept well the last few nights, but nothing in life comes with guarantees.
So I’m going to close now, publish this to this blog, The Chronic Chronicles, and fix myself something to eat. And yes…pray hard for relief or, if not for relief, for acceptance of what comes.