sugar

Is it me, or is it that everyone I know is totally effing insane? I swear I have people in my life who would criticize even my suicide note (if I ever wrote one) and be mad that I didn’t have the forethought to remove my pearls before pulling the trigger. (Not that I would ever shoot myself. M doesn’t know how to remove stains and my blood would be hanging around the house for the next 50 years or so, making it really awkward when G wants to have friends over.)

I guess I’ve had a bad couple of days. The latest insult was this morning. With the help of a friend, whom I will call Jane, I summoned the courage to go back to my old treatment center for alumni weekend. Jane and I planned to meet in the parking lot prior to today’s workshop so neither of us had to walk into that place alone. I didn’t see Jane when I got there, but I saw my old therapist who was speaking at the event and we walked in together. Who better to have by your side when you’re having a panic attack than your therapist, right? Anyway, I immediately noticed all the “We [heart] Our Nurses!” banners, and wondered what the hell that was all about. I walked up to the registration table and asked a counselor about it. “Hey, I remember you from a few years ago!” he said. Yes, of course you do. I freaking lived here for, like, EVER. I inquired about the nursing signs, and since when do nurses get all the love? He responded by telling me that today’s workshop is for professionals only. (Thinking back on it, I do recall seeing the word “professional” in the brochure. But hellloooooo, have you met me? I can do professional in my sleep, and I’ve got a closet full of old Kasper suits to prove it.)
“Are you trying to get free therapy?” he teased me.
“No, I think I left my sweater here and I was just stopping in to see if anyone found it.” (Don’t be a smart-ass with me, as I am a master.)
He said I was welcome to stay and listen. I told him that I’d already paid beaucoups bucks to the therapist speaker, so I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t mind.
I tried to call Jane to tell her not to come, but her phone was turned off. Strange, since the program was about to begin. Instead, I called M and told him I would be home at lunchtime, not the late afternoon as I’d planned.
“Why? Isn’t it all about addiction and recovery? Can’t you benefit from it even if you’re not a nurse?”
“I’m not invited. I don’t know anybody here and I feel like I don’t belong. What if they ask nurse-y questions or something?
“Just stay. It’ll be good.”
“YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M GOING THROUGH JUST BEING HERE! DON’T TELL ME WHAT I SHOULD DO!” (Okay, maybe a little dramatic, but come on. This took me back to the first day I was there when I was on hiatus from Crazytown.)
“You’re right. Do whatever you want.” (That’s more like it.)

I sat down in the auditorium and my therapist began to speak about anger. He said that our personalities were formed by the time we were 5, and then asked us what lessons we’d learned about anger back then. Um, that it’s okay for adults to be mad but not for kids? That it’s fine for adults to throw things at each other and scream and hit and use bad words, but not children? That we shouldn’t express anger? That we should withhold affection when we’re angry? That we should say horrible things about the person causing the anger? That we should be quiet and stay out of the way so people don’t get mad at us?

I started getting antsy with the topic because, well, it was making me angry. Since I have a black belt in suppressing anger, I began to look around the room and zeroed in on a lady sitting two rows in front of me. The back of her head had a bald center, and then big, frizzy tornado rolls pouring out every direction from there. It looked like a place a squirrel could call home. Or, do you remember that Captain Caveman cartoon? It looked like Cavey’s fur, and she could house any number of small appliances or other necessities in there. I thought about that lady’s hair for a while, and then realized I hadn’t been paying attention to all the anger talk.

I checked my phone and saw I’d missed a call from Jane. I stepped out to meet her in the parking lot. No Jane. I called her back and heard the words I knew were coming.
“I drank,” she said.
“I know.” It’s true; some part of me knew when her phone was off.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t apologize to me.” I said this, but I don’t know if I meant it. Part of me wanted to be a brat and scream, ‘Do you know how hard it was for me to get up and come here today? Do you know I had to take deep breaths the entire 45-minute drive? Do you? DO YOU???” But I didn’t say those things, because I know she knows and I also know that saying those words won’t make anything better. Jane is an alcoholic, like me. Jane has good days and bad days. So do I.

I grabbed my bag and left. I called a girlfriend and she made me laugh my ass off, like she always does. When I got home, I went directly to the chocolate 2-bite cupcakes M got me on clearance yesterday. Today is their expiration date, but my husband clearly believes I’m up to the challenge of consuming a dozen cupcakes within a 24-hour period. I will not prove him wrong. After all, inhaling cupcakes is an excellent way to suppress anger.