Getting a little personal

This has nothing really to do with Maplethorpe Ridge, other than to say that I didn't follow through on my plan to write more yesterday.

Really, I'm thinking of moving my personal journaling from Livejournal to here. LJ seems to be slowly dying (at least to me). And Facebook is WAY too public for my taste. And I'm just in the mood to wax introspectively, and this seemed like as good a place as any for that.

My depression has been in full bloom lately. I know this, because I can't focus on anything. I'm bored all the time at home, but I don't really want to do anything. I'm tired, but I can't sleep. I don't eat. And I'm dwelling in the past. None of which are really good things, for sure. But worst of all, I popped open that last Guinness in the fridge tonight, and as I sit here swigging from that tempting dark bottle and feeling that delicious elixir spill on my tongue, I have to ask myself: was there ever a wagon to begin with?

Let's backpedal for a bit. I had "quit" drinking a while back. The quotes are merely to illustrate that my point is not that I have a total drinking problem but what's more of a moderation problem. As with most things in my life, I have no idea where "The Line" is. So, I promised to myself to never again drink alone. There was a day when a dirty Sapphire martini or three was part of my everyday routine. I realized that this was both expensive and unhealthy -- physically, mentally, and emotionally. However, I had allowed myself to drink with friends, and seeing as how I only see my friends once or twice per year, this was a good plan.

But I had a reconnection with a potential friend (slash ex-lover) back in December, so I bought some beer and he brought over a pizza. That was the last time I had a drink, and I was okay with that. There have been occasions with alcohol involved, and I said no and was fine. But tonight, that last Guinness in the fridge was taunting me, and even though she was from December, she tastes so delectable. Taunting me back to my days of excess and debauchery. But I know where my line is, and because I can feel my Tylenol PM kicking in (I know, mixing with alcohol is bad) and this is the only alcohol in the house, this is it.

Of course, this has me worried about tomorrow. Will tomorrow's sorrows drive me to the liquor store on my way home from work? Can I submit without commitment? The Guinness is only half gone, and I'm already feeling swirly and good and warm and loved. Gone are the days of the three martini dinner.

What has brought me to this pseudo-breaking point? Any number of things, really. Dwelling on loves of the past. Worry over future failure and disappointment, sure. Really? It's a longing. A deep seeded longing that I keep buried and locked away. Something inside me that craves. A craving for what? Love. Human touch. Just an implication that things will get better.

There's a constant worry, sometimes expressed, in all facets of my life. Am I good enough at my job to advance to the next level? Will people read my story or heaven forbid, like it? Is that guy who works downstairs flirting or is he just being friendly? Am I going insane?

Of course, the adage goes that if you can ask that then the answer is "no". But I worry that the voice in my head isn't my voice. Is that reasonable? Is it a fractured part of me longing to be heard or is it simply my own unconsciousness pointing me in the proper direction?

There are two halves of myself that fight for attention from my conscious. I worry about that. Who wins? Should one win, or should I try to broker a peace between them and try to have the best of both worlds? Can two very disparate halves coexist separately together, or must, by their very nature, they war until one is destroyed in favor of the other?

And how does that affect my writing? Does playing God in a fictional world of my own creation help my depression or do I play God because I'm depressed? See, I worry. Does my fictional world help me release my depression or does it aid in keeping me depressed? I used to believe that my writing would not be as good if I didn't feel so miserable in my own life. But then, who's to judge what's good and what's not good? If I'm the judge, then nothing I do is ever good, or good enough. But clearly things that I've done are actually good in someone's eyes, or I would not be where I am today?

Mostly, I fear that this is all there is. This, this life of solitude and sorrow is all that I will ever experience, because my fear of living fully is holding me back. I long for change, yet I fear it. I yearn to be loved, yet I push others away. Am I consciously holding myself back from getting what I want, because I want to be miserable? Or am I only being prudent in my decisions not to act so as not to get hurt through the "obvious" (real or imagined) outcome? Playing it safe is a scary place to live.

And this brings me to the age old question: how do I expect someone to love me when I do not (or cannot) love myself? And that is it. Nail, meet hammer. Does loving someone and losing them hurt more than not loving anyone? I don't know. In the short term, yes, probably. In the long term: I think the jury is still out on that one.

But in the immortal words of Shirley Manson: "I'm only happy when it rains."

And this, my friends, is another reason why I don't drink.