Second Day in a Year to Live

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I don’t really know what to write which is odd since I have so much to say. I have a lot of hope for the coming year in my self-imposed “year to live” program and I was actually excited to get started making some necessary changes today. Unfortunately, I spent most of the day doing damage control with people who chose not to respect my wishes and rather launched into their solutions and advice and even some pretty nasty admonitions. (Those came mostly from people who, in my humble opinion, are desperate to avoid taking a similarly honest– if somewhat brutal– look at their own lives.) I refuse to waste this, what promises to be the best year of my life, interacting and corresponding with those who chose to tell me how “addicted to drama,” “selfish,” and “narcissistic” I was being when I wrote yesterday’s blog. When I said I didn’t want to discuss the blog, I meant it. I have a shit-ton of work to do in the next year. I don’t have time to fix your life too. If you can benefit from my process along the way, welcome aboard, but don’t make me help you with the first couple of items on your inventory list. My guess is you’re not ready to hear it. And it wouldn’t be pretty for either of us.
Don’t be idiots. If I were going to take my life, I wouldn’t announce it on Facebook. But the old life is looking down the barrel of a year-long suicide. I’m sick to death of some of the character defects and how they’ve continued to rule my life and it’s either them or me. So…
On my sobriety anniversary next year, I’m still going to decide if I want to go on living and if the answer is no, the guillotine it is. I’ll just have to lop off this busy head before it causes me or anybody else any more trouble. (A guillotine? Really? Where the fuck would I find the wood with everyone nailing themselves to crosses all around me?) Selfish? You bet your ass. A drowning man can’t save anybody. I’m getting my crazy ass to the center of the lifeboat. Then we’ll see what’s what.

So on September 1, 1997, I landed with my boyfriend of two and a half years in sunny Southern California. I was freshly clean off marijuana, the only drug I’d done in the preceding three years (unless you count the copious amounts of cigarettes and coffee). Years of drunken experience had shown me that alcohol just didn’t work for me in any positive way. I’d even had three periods of complete sobriety that lasted a year or more. Then I put myself on teh marijuana maintenance program and proceeded to become a garden variety pot head. Actually, truth me told, pot hadn’t destroyed my life in the way alcohol had. At parties, when offered a drink, I’d even say when offered a drink, “No thanks, I’m an alcoholic,” but when it came time for them to pass the joint, it was “pass it this way bro!” But, as I told you yesterday, I had decided that all the crutches had to go so after my rolling sweat lodge purification across the desert, I arrived to face my new life in LA head on. I came to Hollywood with a big heart and big dreams. But we hadn’t been there long before the black cloud of a crumbling and unhealthy relationship started to obstruct any and all of those dreams. Living life on life’s terms is a precarious proposition for any newly-sober addict even when the sailing is otherwise smooth. But the waters were getting ever choppier and the rolling thunder signaled that there was a big storm just over the Pacific horizon.


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