Arnold Palmers at the Travelodge
I ordered an Arnold Palmer with tonight’s dinner at the Travelodge. I feel this is exactly the thing a soon-to-be-legally-divorced recovering alcoholic might drink in a Travelodge when she seriously, massively, wants to drink.
And I haven’t had cravings like this since earlier in my abstinence from alcohol. And I suppose a divorce is one of those qualifying “life events” that make urges to drink, especially for those of us with un poco problema con alcohol (how’s my Spanish?), feel much more pronounced. So I am drinking an Arnold Palmer instead. I am making a choice not to drink. And yes, I’m going to more meetings but honestly I don’t feel very talkative right now. I sometimes feel writeative (I know that’s not a word, just like I know T.S. Eliot was a WWI poet and not a WWII poet despite the typo in my first print of Transference still on that bullshit), but I don’t feel talkative.
Who do I call about getting one of those shady propofol doctors like Mike Jackson had? I just need to get to sleep before, like 3 a.m..
This morning, I slept way later than planned (this cannot happen this week) because I couldn’t sleep until 2:30 ish. Yes, meds. Yes, melatonin. Yes, cannabis. Yes, meditation. I am going through something hard, and sleep is difficult right now, and I need to figure out how to work with my brain/body as it is currently. I think I am mostly doing pretty well. Eating fairly well when I have appetite. Getting necessary things in order. Today, I went by The Spaceship to pack some things. This was exhausting and depressing.
Now I am drinking an Arnold Palmer, writing to you, reader, and looking forward to doing my daily Wordle before bed. And hoping I can sleep.
Don’t even know what happened, reader, I mean to my relationship. Just evaporated. Just ended, not with a bang, but with an “I’m going to my parents’ house.” No one person did any one thing, but rather it was a combination of personal shortcomings, unstoppable change, and . . . I don’t know. The third piece is the one I’ll be chewing on for a while. Privately. But personal shortcomings and unstoppable change? Well, hell, we all know what those things are. We all struggle with them. All the fuckin’ time. I’ve done enough work on myself in the past year that I’m fairly certain what my most challenging personal shortcomings are. I’ve done enough thinking to know a bit about the side effects of rapid, largely deleterious, change.
I know what I know, and I know a great deal. These seven years alone, in the k-12 classroom, have gifted me the equivalent of a BA and MA in Education. Seriously. Not that I’m the “greatest teacher ever,” but I’m pretty damn good, and how many people with Master’s in Ed are the “greatest teacher ever” anyway? It’s a hard craft because on this craft rides the literacy (in the broadest sense), the well being, and the success of hundreds upon hundreds of young people. You cannot, truly, be taught how to run a classroom. You can get some tips and tricks, but in the end, ya either can do it or ya can’t. It’s not a “sorta” profession. And this year, I fear, I’ve been a “sorta” teacher because my life has been one calamity after the next. And now this. Now this.
Right now, I’m mostly on one-day-at-a-time, except for when I can’t be — like when I’m coordinating moving arrangements, moving my cancer care back east (my shitty ACA healthcare takes NONE of the cancer docs I need, much less want, so I will be calling Susan G. Komen foundation tomorrow and see if they have ideas).
And I should probably get to bed. I have a doctor appointment tomorrow (labs, and quick visit — put off my scans for Illinois because, I don’t know, I just couldn’t psychologically handle a fucking day of scans during what is probably the hardest time in my whole life), wish to get to work in-person, and hope to pack some more.
Thank you readers who have donated to the Go Fund Me. You have no idea what a burden those extra funds relieve. Right now I’m pretty hand-to-mouth until I settle into my new place in the ‘burbs (I got a place, and it’s very cute, and if I told you this already, reader, forgive me — I’m a little muddy with the details right now because I’m doing things). Then I have a plan — a plan for earning $ (just enough to be comfortable, to be happy — I don’t need fancy.
And thank you readers who’ve sent love. I feel this.
Right now, my main problem is that I feel really lonely and isolated. Barely hear from my ex family, the only family I had here in Tucson. And that’s okay. My point is I feel very cut off, and so Chicago will be a wonderful “next landing” as it is so full of people I know/who know me. I do worry if Chicago will accept me as me, which is who I am now, for I have grown totally fucking fed up of trying to be anyone else but myself. Once my marriage busted up, this was final: I will no longer perform self-ness. I am who I am. Damnit.
And apparently, I am not such a monster or I’d not have the outpouring of love and support that is coming my way every day.
Just need to get through another couple weeks. Might spend some time in Flag. There’s folks up there to whom I must say a proper “see-you-later, ‘gator.”
And that’s all for tonight, reader.
I’m underslept, but holding steady.
I’m trying to sleep, and trying to eat.
One foot in front of the next.
Be good, hooligans.