drinking is pretty

I'm feeling really good right now. It doesn't make sense that I avoid things that make me feel good, when in the moment all I can think is that I always want to feel this way.

This week has been better. I feel more confident in myself. I am actually pretty goddamn awesome. And I shouldn't dismiss the people who believe that. They're not as crazy as I assume they are.

There will be others.

I've been thinking about moving. Not just moving houses (as we will be doing shortly) but moving away. I need to get out of Utah. Being in the minority culture group really fucking sucks. Somehow it means that everyone else gets a say in my life.

But I also have no idea where to go, or even where to start looking. There is nowhere specific that pulls me; at least that we'd have any hope of affording. How do you decide where you want to spend your life? When you are born somewhere, it's hard to even fathom going about your day-to-day existence somewhere entirely different. But then I think, well I'll get used to it and when the majority of my free time is Netflix does it even matter?

And the rest of life is working. Which is why it feels so important to eventually work with more like-minded people. I don't know what my dream job is but I know how it feels. Is that odd? I want to feel that I'm contributing to this world in a measurable way. I want to feel as though my heart is interesting/good enough to help someone else's. I have no idea how to go about it.

Right now none of that is possible. And so I'm drunk again. Does it make it better? I don't know. It softens everything, and even the bad emotions feel beautiful. That's something, I guess. The last time I opened up to my mom - when I begged her not to leave me - she claimed I had told her that drinking made me "more emotional." As if that was the only conceivable reason I'd have to be devestated. As if years of emotional distance hadn't dragged deep wounds into my heart. What really pissed me off is that she was lying. I had never, at any time, ever spoken to her about my drinking. Certainly not how I feel when I drink. Because she already had her judgements formed, and if there is one thing I know about my mother is that nothing can change the reality she lives in. Jesse and I were talking about that the other day.

Fun mom story. Apparently on Thanksgiving, my mom's adopted six or seven year old daughter was having a meltdown (because that's what highly damaged adopted children do) and as my mother was trying to get her in the car, some guys nearby thought it looked like my mom was kidnapping this girl. So they called the cops. They also apparently decided they couldn't wait for the cops to save this girl, so they started "hitting" and "attacking" my mom's car trying to get to the girl. Listening to this story, Jesse and I did feel a bit sympathetic for my mom -- after all, adopted children are difficult and its not always easy for outsiders to understand the situation. And it seems like theses guys overreacted (in getting violent), which must've been scary. However... I couldn't help but think... that every mom story has something left out. We must not be getting the full truth. She must've been doing something or saying something that caused more suspicion than the situation warranted. I don't even know what, I just know that in the last two years I have learned that my mother never tells the full truth. She will always, conveniently, "unintentionally" leave out the parts that make her look bad. When confronted with this, she generally keeps twisting reality. That way, she never has to confront her own sick behavior. 

Ironically, the way I learned this was from a previous "daughter" that my parents considered adopting before they gave up on her. She was 17, though. She was old enough that when I heard her tell stories about fights with my mom, she would tell me the facts. And they always included facts that my mother would leave out of the original story. And it occurred to me (for the first time) that my ultra-religious mother is the dirtiest fucking liar I have ever met. And that to trust her is to continue getting hurt. 

Drinking helps. I don't give a fuck if that is wrong. You know how a lot of artists are alcoholics? I kind of get it. There's something about it that makes me feel so... pure. Everything I see and feel is beautiful. I want to make beautiful things. I want to express the beauty around me. I tell Jesse, in a couple years - when you get a high-paying job and I stop having to worry about everything in the world -- put me in rehab. For now, I'll keep functioning and using this as my time to let go of all the burdens, to give myself a moment to goddamn breathe without worrying the world will explode. Its one of the few times I can feel like each moment is perfect.

I love my husband. For all the reasons I have to be in therapy, I'm glad he is there to make life worthwhile. I was super mad at him today. We're both incredibly stressed. That's uncommon for him (it reminds me of when we're both sick and then who the fuck is going to take care of me??). Then when I got a chance to just spend some time near him tonight... I realized the only reason I was mad at him is that I can only be truly at peace if he is with me. God, I love him. I know how ridiculously lucky I am to have a man like that be by my side through all the shit and sunshine of my life. 

love,

lisapink

P.S. I couldn't convince Jesse to spontaneously hit up the strip club tonight. His compromise was taking me to see Mockingjay a third time. I can live with that.