I am not surprised that it’s been nine months since I last posted something here. I’ve been struggling to focus on the things I believe I want to do, and exploring the landscape of psychological discomfort, learning my way around. A few weeks after my February post, I simply quit drinking. It felt like the time had come. It’s not that I enjoy this dismally sober and brittle state of mind, but I’m getting used to it. Sure, there have been a few outbursts (two of them directed at brother Brian) of the sort that used to be fueled by mild spirits (I rarely ever indulged in anything other than beer or wine, but of course it’s not the type of alcohol, it’s the amount that one must be concerned about). This might be the longest span of time I’ve traversed without the sort of relief I was used to—since moving to Huntsville in 1981. At that time I’d utilized AA meetings during the summer to motivate both sobriety and dieting. Upon encountering Alabama's most Christian-oriented AA meeting (I should have tried others!) that October, I gave up. Now I’m simply on my own. Just what I do not need at my age.
In addition to anger, or maybe even paranoia (Brian would call it that, and has), I’ve had gushes of anxiety. Not every minute, but in relation to perceived and forseen difficulties in the world. My little dog was diagnosed with kidney failure; she was throwing up and slowing down, and I made an appointment to have her euthanized (to avoid what I’m going through now), but was talked out of it by Russell and the vet at that very appointment. I’m glad Maggie’s still here after all, but the expensive probiotic pills she’s supposed to take have to be refrigerated. Can’t put them in warm food or they’ll be ruined. The result is that I stand over her, for long minutes, begging her to eat. I can slip the pills under her nose when she starts and she’ll gulp them down. But I still have to wait until her appetite gets going, which cuts into the time I have for worrying about other things! The cat has been a pain, too, meowing in a way that makes me want to kill her. I do not kill her. She’s old, and has decided that there’s always something I can do for her whenever she sees me, simply because I have not ever failed to respond, sometimes by tossing her to the other side of the bed, but often by giving her treats. These animal needs are constantly buzzing around in my home environment. It’s not world-broadening, it’s world-shrinking. Just what I do not need at my age.
So much musical activity going on since February: attendance at many in-person open mics, and open mics online. Cyberspace is a good venue for me: the words and chords are on the screen where I can see them without making it obvious that I’m using that "crutch" (which can't be avoided in person; I'm the not-OK boomer with the notebook and music stand). An online open mic scheduled for the evening, songs chosen, a few run-throughs earlier in the day, a proper audio setup, and I’m ready to emote and deliver, close up, with a dark background. I’m told I’m very good by more than one person, and not in the way that everyone gets congratulated, but in private emails. Gratifying? Maybe, but in-person local situations are more fraught. I’ve made so many mistakes, technical (capo falling off) and performance-related (missed or wrong chords, losing my place on the lyric sheet, letting go of the mystical energy rope). I’ve sat by myself at a table, wondering how to socialize (without beer), and just as I was making new friends, the place of everyone's favorite open mic (Salty Nut Brewery) closed. I’m now recording songs for another album, slowly but surely. The experience is humbling. Just what I do not need at my age.
Yes, Brian’s still here (after a year and four months), and Russell and I are trying to prod him to announce his plans. Of course he doesn’t have any (I wrote a song about that, of course). It’s at times like these that I understand cousin Denise’s horror at my situation. No choices. No room to move. But there will be a move anyway—Russell and I are moving to the smaller front room for our bedroom, and he’ll use the big room for his magic studio and office, the way it was supposed to be from the start. No more waking up because Brian is talking in his sleep! But Brian himself makes me anxious, simply by his hiding, his postponing, his relentless depression that he refuses to seek help for and yet makes obvious, and his Coffey know-it-all-ness continuing unabated despite his dire, dependent situation. During one of the aforementioned outbursts I accused him of hating me, but now I think it was me who perhaps hated him at that moment. I’ve also quite recently accused Joy of “despising” me, led there by her obvious avoidance of me (except socially at poetry meetings) since our final zoom session a couple of months ago. These days her reasons for living are to save the Earth and destroy capitalism; any deviance from that path or, god forbid, impatience with it, will earn you her silence, if not disdain. I feel I’ve lost that friendship, which makes me wonder how it ever came to be in the first place. But I know it was real for many years, and there's something that was once important missing now. Just what I do not need at my age.
Recently I’ve run out of time for the weekly “women writers reading” zoom event on Monday evenings, I’ve struggled through a last 40Days program and almost lost my enjoyment of writing, and I’m taking weekly jazz ukulele lessons from a smiling old gnome at Harmony Sound, causing me to question whether I ever played adequately at all. Also, due to lack of privacy and Russell’s commitment to driving homeless Dave and Kim around whenever requested during the afternoons when Brian's out of the house at the coffeeshop, there’s been no sex for months. I thought that wouldn’t bother me, but now after many months, it does. Will moving to the front room at night bring that back (in its limited form)? Without being able to look forward to the relief of a couple of beers or a glass of wine with sparkling water, I have to take everything at face value, and it’s rough, and nothing flows smoothly except for practicing ukulele (the lull of repetition). The moment of finally putting my head down on the pillow at night is the closest I get to pleasure now, but then the cat ruins it by walking on my neck or pushing under the covers next to me but never staying put once there. However, for the first time since I had those gulps from the wine pouch, on the rollercoaster at Paragon Park with Ralph in 1966, I think I can do without. I really do. Just what I need at my age.
