Does my penchant for self-examination (often resulting in dead-end puzzlement) mean I’m really a “narcissist”? I can’t be the judge of that, but of course there are times when my behavior causes problems that I have to ponder, or feel guilty about, or feel victimized about.
I’ve antagonized people close to me once again, especially Russell. I did not respond well, in fact, I responded like a two-year-old being removed from a party, to his arrival at The Nook, where I sat feeling relatively comfortable with Joy and Susan Davis after our monthly WriteNightOut where we respond to prompts, write, and read aloud. Beer was involved, perhaps more for me than the other two, I’m not sure. But then, Joy says I’m a “lightweight” when it comes to tolerance. The name of the beer was “Pernicious,” and I had three of them. On a relatively empty stomach.
So, my two girlfriends called Russell “behind my back” to come fetch me from The Nook, where, our meeting being more-or-less over, I’d continued loudly complaining about something-or-other (perhaps about Brian’s expectation of my not-worrying about him even after the extreme circumstances I found him in; or perhaps about my newly-discovered resentment—thanks to my cousin Denise’s bragging about her own lifestyle—of Russell’s never having had a ‘day job’ all these years.)
When I saw Russell walk in to the patio where we were, sitting at a table with gas flames flickering on top (which Eco-Joy did not object to, so what’s up with THAT?)… I was surprised, then confused, then very angry, VERY ANGRY. Russell says I “traumatized” him by beating my fists against his very substantial chest, but I felt I was fighting for my autonomy, my psychic life, very much the same way I felt I had to verbally fight Felicia over Zoom when she criticized my songwriting last year. I know I shouted “Fuck you” to Joy and Susan as Russell pulled me out of there and I continued to fight him and to shout (he says). When he got me to the entryway of The Nook, he pushed me very hard up against a post, twice. It didn’t hurt, it just was evidence of his upset-ness. I suppose I’m sorry for that. I am still convinced that if I’d been left alone I’d have driven home perfectly well. I’ve done that so often, and from that exact location, and in even worse shape. True to the “drunk” profile, I thought I was pretty much OK. Was I? I don’t even know.
My yelling got my vocal cords seriously strained (can’t sing right!), and my relationship with Russell is strained, and now he wants to accompany me to every outing I plan, including open mics and obligatory attendance at fellow ukulele players’ gigs. That’s fine; we’ve had fun so far, but he may get tired of it, and I still feel that my much-vaunted ‘independence’ is threatened. These, though, are superficial concerns.
If I am a sort of ‘functional’ alcoholic, it’s kind of low-level. My intake would not sustain a ‘real’ alcoholic. I suppose I have a weird response to any alcohol at all. I’ve tried, over the years, to abstain. But I’ve never had peace of mind in any circumstances except for that (physical) mood after a couple of beers or glasses of wine. Peace of mind, you’d think, would be a reward of getting through the working years and having some money come in regularly. Maybe it’s not even ‘peace of mind’ I want, but just a sense of relaxation and a conviction that I’m good enough to hang out with people without having to GIVE or PERFORM or HELP others. Having been instructed as a child that simply being there was not enough, I’ve had a sense of obligation, even resentment, about almost anything I do—rather than a feeling of simply WANTING to do something. I’ve never really known what I ‘wanted,’ and have been angered by that very question. How the hell do I know what I want?! No one ever encouraged me to pay attention to THAT. With the result now that that is ALL I PAY ATTENTION TO.
“What is wrong with me?” Is one question, bringing on the filthy flood of memories false and true, and then the counter-attack, “Maybe nothing. Maybe this is how you’re supposed to be.” Then the reality: “You’re really endangering your social relations, the ones that keep you afloat, such as your marriage and close friendships.” But maybe I should have sunk to the bottom long ago and found a different way up to the surface, I don’t know. I do not like depending on others, so this scenario is going to get worse, NO DOUBT, as I get older and more feeble in various ways.
The glaring truth that I DO fuck up pretty badly (occasionally) CLEARLY does not help meliorate my chronic lack of pleasure or satisfaction with myself or my circumstances. Without at least some ‘peace’ with myself, it’s pretty hard to get through the day. I have willpower, and I can get a few things done, but I take no satisfaction in these things, really.
There are always more things to do, and some of them seem almost impossible.
I have a trunk and suitcases full of my mother’s memorabilia. I have an office-ful of my own. What am I supposed to do with all that? Projects to organize it disintegrate. No one cares anyway.
Yes, I take myself too seriously. I keep half-believing that there’s a reason I’m HERE. Am I supposed to write and sing songs? Am I supposed to just write? For whom, now that I’ve deprived myself of Facebook through my own stupidity (on the same night I cursed out my loved ones at The Nook, but later, when I thought I’d calmed down and a new musical acquaintance, James Leo, asked me to send him a code in Messenger.) Eager to make up for my transgressions earlier that evening, and wrongly believing James was hapless and might likely NEED my help, I responded cooperatively to the scammer’s message, thus doubling my bad luck and poisoning (with regret and attempts to get a response from FB) the hours that I try now to fill with reasonable small creative or pedestrian achievements that never make me feel better about myself anyway.
Shouldn’t knowing that 20,000 people died in the earthquake rubble in Turkey and Syria this week…never having strummed a few chords at an open mic…be a modifying factor? It should, but it isn’t. The sick feeling I have about THAT is different from the blank feeling I have about my own inner self and its puzzles and shortcomings. Right now a perspective from the outside (such as Russell’s) is only humbling me to the point of paralysis. I really want to feel better. A glass of wine will do the trick for a little while, won’t it?
