Firstly, I wanted to apologise to everyone on this site for burdening all of you (those of you who read my posts, anyway) with my drivel.
Secondly, it’s nice of all of you to want to cheer me up or help me to feel better, but the fact of the matter is that such kind words directed at a wastrel like me are lost. Whatever nice things any of you might say without knowing me really (and it’s really a good thing that you don’t) just make me realise even more how far gone I am, and how much I can’t even conceive of the nice things and kind words of which you speak.
You see, feeling like shit and hating myself aren’t the aberration, they are the “normal”. It’s times when I DON’T wish that I were dead that are the exception.
Every night when I go to sleep, I pray that I’ll die so that I don’t have to wake up again. And then every morning when I do in fact wake up, I’m disappointed.
Yes, I travel quite a bit, I go scuba diving from time to time, I go places… but invariably by myself. I have never managed to have a relationship with a woman without her invariably (and deservedly) coming to hate me… not as much as I hate myself, but probably close.
That was the GOOD thing about drinking too much, far too much… it helped to distract me from the fact that I can’t even stand looking at myself in the mirror. It made me feel like crap, but crap on top of crap is just more crap, so what difference could it possibly make.
I started drinking a long time ago, not long after the age of 25, which was the age by which I had hoped to be dead.
So why stop now? Well, I’m sure that many of you will think that this is a strange reason, but here it is.
Despite being 29 years past my “least shitty before” date, I stopped drinking because I was afraid that it would kill me too soon.
If I had managed to get myself killed by the age of 25, well, I was in the military, my parents would not have been thrilled, I imagine, but having both lived through World War II, I’m sure that they would have coped… and anyway, there are my brothers and sisters and their families, that would have made it easier.
But now my father is dead, these last 13 years, and my mother is going to be 89 at the end of the month.
So you see, I wouldn’t want her to waste any tears now over my death, so I have to go on.
But she’s 89 years old… and though I’m happy that she is still with us for the sake of my brothers and sisters and all of her grandkids (and even a couple of great-grandkids, but not kids of mine, obviously), perhaps I shan’t have to go on for much longer.
Sorry to blather, everybody.