I'm sure it isn't, but it does. Feel that way. I mean, the hangover is only part of the equation. There's also this awful broken feeling inside, beneath my gnawing belly, this sense that I'm beyond repair, and it (the feeling) was present prior to the hangover. Which I came by honestly, in the form of delicious rose` (how the fuck does one make the little accent mark sit astride the "e" without having to perform keyboarded acrobatics of which I am decidedly unaware; anyone?) at Clyde Common, with uber-fabulous people to drink alongside, and properly offend by my drunkenness, and general boorishness.
It's the ADHD, it's the aging process, it's the failure to thrive. I'm blowing it on every level. I am watching my life swirl around the base of the drain and I'm thinking, how can I fucking stop this, or at least make it swirl beautifully before the giant sucking sound happens and all the life has swirled down into the black depths?
I am incapable of retaining things like learned social behaviors that everyone else is able to retain. I'm stuck in this fucking toddler loop, and I can explain that shit to people I'm around until my mouth bleeds from the pressure of speech propelled through the tired maw (and delivered from the depths of a tired ma), but it doesn't matter, because in the end, I still come off like an asshole and people get tired of my excuses.
I'm tired of my excuses, too. I want to change it, but the only way I can currently think to change it is to just hide, hunker down, slink along the lowest points, pretend I don't exist. Sure, I have to exist on some level for Jack's sake, but I don't have to exist for my own sake. If I'm only needed for familial support, I can do that without having to exist socially in my own right.
Granted, my husband doesn't love the energy I'm expelling into the atmosphere of our home when these are the turgid, clay-cloud thoughts that churn within the generator of my body, that I release this stuff and it deposits a thick layer of gray soot along the surface of the piano and the couch and the table and our bed and the chairs and the artwork and knick-knacks and the dog and the child and nothing and no one remains free of its drifting coat of heavy and clinging webs.
I am not able to do what others do. I can't finish writing the papers or reading the books or completing the thoughts. I can't flesh out the details and I can't complete the projects and I can't remember the important and the not-so-important. I can't always remember to feed my child on time or keep him on his even sort-of-regular schedule and I can't recall to whom I told what and I can't keep track of my vocabulary so it slips in and out and there are plenty of occasions where I feel as though I've gone further backwards in my time on earth than forward, in fact, I am beginning to be convinced that the only things that have been allowed to grow are my ability to convey the pretense that I am an adult, like a great toddler-mimic, and my body has aged appropriately in order to push the pretense's believability up toward quasi-truth, but at bottom, in my gut, under my gnawing belly, I know that it's all just this gigantic farce. I am a toddler who cannot remember how many months ago something happened, and thinks it was yesterday, cannot get beyond the oppositional behavior, cannot manage to pull off the necessities required of an adult life.
And I am beginning to be convinced that there is nothing that can alter this sequence.
Which is why I was right to not want to have a child, ever. It's why I always knew I shouldn't procreate. I'm not capable enough to manage things. I can, for awhile, but not for the length of time necessary. (disclaimer: I'm not suggesting my son is not amazing and wonderful; I'm suggesting that I am not capable of taking care of him well enough to merit his worth.)
I'm failing, and I'm failing hard and fast.
And I don't believe there's anything I can do or think or inhale or swallow or drink or eat or work on or write or talk about or downward-dog or run toward or away from or above or around to fix it or heal it or aid it or even ameliorate it.
Everyone is having seconds, they're filling their bellies with second babies and more life and bigger chances for fear and failure and success and their courage in the face of such odds appalls me because I don't have that option. I shouldn't have optioned the first belly full. I am failing him, and he knows, he knows the way I knew with my parents.
Fuck.
(I'm leaving comments closed because to see the sad, round zero staring back at me two days from tomorrow will just make it worse.)
