Today was noteworthy enough to warrant an entry.

I had a near-death reaction to one of my medications.

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I left work an hour and a half later than I was scheduled today, but I didn’t mind. It actually ended up being an okay thing because when I revved up my Lexus, the radio station (B96 – We Are Hip-Hop) played a song I hadn’t heard before – “Day Dreaming” by DJ Drama featuring Akon, Snoop Dogg, and T.I.

The track grabbed my attention from its first lyric:

Shirley Temple on ice

Pardonnez-moi, s'il vous plaît, I believe I may have misheard you, Monsieur Akon. Surely that frosty beverage was the oft-celebrated top-shelf champagne Cristal, or the urban-iconic cognac Hennessy, or Fergie Ferg’s beloved Grey Goose vodka, perhaps even a good-spirited reference to co-collaborator Snoop’s 1995 gin and juice homage. Ready to Tanqueray?

She makes it just right.
That extra grenadine got me feelin’ so nice.

Oh, you’re fucking serious?

I waited for the inevitable label-drop or even mention of nondescript rum or whiskey or whatever additive was sure to become the backbone of the next big gotta-order-it cocktail sensation, any excuse to “blame it on the a-aa-a-aa-alcohol” like Jamie Foxx and, you know, everyone in hip-hop.

It didn’t come.

But the chorus did.

( Clicking on this link will reveal considerable rumination on the evolution of hip-hop music, gender relations in the hip-hop community, the emotional and psychosocial interpretation of hip-hop culture by white suburbia, and, you know, stuff that's like that. )

I went to dinner with a group of friends tonight, and during the course of conversation, I realized that it’s probably not appropriate for me to be publicly disclosing all the aspects of my recovery journey on this online journal. In times past when I’d heard the tradition of maintaining personal anonymity at the public level, the crazy person in me had interpreted that to mean “when I go on David Letterman, I won’t tell the world that I’m a member of Alcoholics Anonymous.” Never did it cross my mind that this tradition meant that I probably shouldn’t be identifying myself as an AA member to those outside of AA. Never did it cross my mind that, gee golly, maybe I shouldn’t be discussing my personal AA experience in a public venue. Obviously, I have problems with, like, thinking reasonably about things.

Honestly, it does kind of upset me because I am, notoriously, the chick who knows no boundaries when it comes to personal disclosure. Granted, I have gotten better at drawing the line; it’s been a few years since I updated the online world about my pap smears (you’re welcome). Nevertheless, I do have that weird, self-obsessed sense that I’ve got, like, this obligation to be a cautionary tale or martyr or role model (what?!) and expose to everybody the trials and tribulations of being me. And, you know, it’s not for any sort of reason of wanting to help or inspire others; it’s totally about having an interesting blog and getting page hits and figuring out any kind of way that I can profit from my life experiences because it’s totally unfair that I should have to struggle without as many people as possible paying attention to me. I mean, isn’t that what is really my issue here? For pretty much the last decade, my attitude has been, “Well, if I can’t put it in a book and make money off of it, then I’m not going to do it.” For years, my entire purpose for participating online was the hope that somebody “important” would notice me, offer me the contract of a lifetime, and make all my dreams come true.

The problem here is that it would seem that maybe I’ve been using AA for extremely selfish and profit-motivated reasons. That isn’t to say that, on a personal level, AA hasn’t been the key in keeping me alive and hopefully leading me to a better life; what I’m saying is that, by talking about the experience publicly, I’m a total asshole and betraying the fundamental principles that make this program work. To have complained to the whole world about my former sponsor is outrageously disrespectful. I should have my ass kicked.

Personal evolution is excruciating when you’re going through it. As I wrote in one of my fan fics, “self-awareness of this shit sucks.” I love my ignorance. I love being completely unaware of how my behavior affects others. I love it because being aware means having a conscience and having to make difficult changes, and that isn’t fun. I don’t like having to give up what’s become comfortable or pleasurable to me.

I am at a place in my life where the decisions I must make very rarely result in an immediate feeling of satisfaction. Tonight, I’ve come to the realization that I really shouldn’t talk about AA on here anymore and for a number of reasons, especially the fact that I have not been a good example of how this program works or should work or whatever, and that is totally unfair to an organization that’s responsible for saving hundreds of thousands of lives. Tonight, I decided that I’m no longer going to do my little “AA updates” on this journal. And, no, I’m not happy about it. What am I going to write about now??

This is the next step for me to take. I’ve been challenged to think about something other than my own interests and aspirations for the sake of that which is larger than myself. That’s uncomfortable for someone as self-absorbed as I.

So between practicing personal anonymity at the public level and not trying to have sex with someone I’m attracted to (no matter how much I fricking want to), my definition of “things I do for enjoyment” is pretty much shot. That doesn’t mean I’ll never have fun again; it just means I need to reevaluate. Redevelop. Discover. Venture. Grow. I’m not thrilled about it, but there are plenty of new opportunities to have a good time.

Like having dinner with friends.


P.S. Today marks 30 days of sobriety. What up?

I still can't get over the fact that things aren't better than they were before, and at least before, I didn't have to feel it.

This is the last thing I wrote on Live Journal a little over six months ago. The flaw in this statement’s logic is that it doesn’t take into consideration the issue of progression.

I’d heard a thousand times that alcoholism is a progressive disease. I never really took the time to think about what that meant because I’d assumed that I had this thing licked. I was cured. I didn’t have to consider what would happen if I drank again because I was, simply, never going to drink again. And if I did – God forbid – drink again, then I’d surely see the error of my ways and immediately return to working a stellar recovery program.

When I wrote my last post, I had this thought in my head that my sober life sucked, and if I started using again, I wouldn’t have to feel any of the anxiety and sense of incompetency I was experiencing. As far as that whole “progressive” thing goes, I figured that just meant that I’d build up a greater tolerance and have to drink more. No big deal.

So a few hours after I wrote that entry, I relapsed. I drank three big glasses of vodka and Red Bull. And it was fucking incredible. It was amazing. It was the best I’d felt in a long time. Immediately, all the reasons I’d drank like a fiend for three years came back to me. I had no anxiety. I had no fear. That hole in my gut was filled. I felt happy and social and perfectly content in my skin. I felt smart and witty and creative. I was invincible. I could accomplish anything I wanted, and it was only a matter of time before all my hopes and dreams would come true. With alcohol in my system again, I’d write the greatest story, and then I’d win that Pulitzer or Academy Award or whatever. At long last, I could once again breathe and dream and do. I could be. I’d go on Oprah and David Letterman, and everyone would love me, and I’d have riches beyond my wildest dreams, and everything would be the way it was supposed to be. Finally, I was me again.

Five and a half months later, after losing all my friends, destroying my reputation at work, failing in numerous romantic endeavors, attempting suicide five times, being committed to a psychiatric hospital, narrowly escaping abduction and rape after I’d impulsively hopped on a plane to South Florida, and being told by my parents to find somewhere else to live because they didn’t want to see me again, I was drinking shots of Captain Morgan while listening to a recording of my favorite Alcoholics Anonymous speaker, Earl H of Studio City, giving a workshop on the Twelve Steps. I think that says it all right there – that despite living in an endless hell, despite wanting to hear the hope of a sober life, despite listening to the things I had to do to be happy and joyous and free, I still had to drink. And drinking had ceased to be fun. I was miserable when I drank. I was a wreck. I created chaos and filled my family with fear. More often than not, drinking led me to cutting or swallowing lethal dosages of pills (being forced to vomit all night long isn’t fun). When I wasn’t drinking, my whole body ached, and when I was drinking, my heart ached. I hated everyone and everything.

I wasn’t afraid that I would die; I was afraid that I wouldn’t.

I guess that’s the progression they were talking about.

Today, I am three weeks sober. I don’t have a post for you about the wonderful things I’ve learned since my last drink, or my hopes and dreams for the future, or a sense of limitless possibility just beyond the horizon. I don’t have that post for you because I’ve got none of those things. The last time I got sober, God allowed me to feel joy and hope and potential so that I’d want to stay sober. My ego grabbed hold and demanded that I feel nothing but happiness, never again experience discomfort and disappointment, and when it became clear that this isn’t how life or recovery work, I decided to quit the game. My ego has always been my downfall. This time around, God isn’t giving me any illusions. He’s saying, “You know what, you are a miserable person, and your life does suck, and if you don’t like it, then you’re going to have to do some things to change it.” God’s on my team, but He’s not going to hold my hand and gently walk me through this. That approach obviously didn’t work.

Alcohol has beaten me into a state of reasonableness, which is to say that I got my ass kicked so thoroughly that I give up. It’s become clear to me that I have no idea how to live or think or feel in manner that would suggest sanity, so I don’t get to make the decisions anymore. When my previous sponsor told me to do something, I thought it was stupid, so I didn’t do it. Now when my new sponsor tells me to do something, I think it’s stupid, but I do it anyway. ‘Cause I obviously don’t know what works. Before, God would tell me, “Don’t be a whore,” but I’d think that surely I could make my own rules. Now when God calls me to do things – like looking at getting involved in ministry (what?!) – I say, “I think You’re crazy and I’m totally wrong for this, but it’s Your call.”

I’m not for a second going to say that this is easy because it’s not. I’m not going to say that I like it because I don’t. I’m a very stubborn and self-involved person, so I struggle every minute with trusting other people to make my decisions. Most of the time, I fail. Most of the time, I walk around feeling bitter and irritable. And, of course, when I feel that way, it’s a red flag that I’m trying to control things again. I can then choose to let go, or I can choose to stay pissed off. More often than not, I choose to stay pissed off. But maybe one of these days, I’ll figure out that it’s easier the other way.

I’m not happy to be sober, but I’m happy to not be drinking. Or maybe I’m not happy to not be drinking, but I’m happy to be sober. I don’t know. One of the two. I’d like to drink. I’d like to not feel discomfort. I’d like to feel those things that alcohol used to make me feel. But somewhere along the line, drinking stopped being fun and started being the opposite, and it took a lot of hard hits for me to finally figure out that it’s never going to go back to being fun. Believe me, every time I drank, I thought that maybe this time it would be fun again. It never was. And once you get to that point, there’s no turning back. So, you know, I’m happy I’m not drinking because if I were drinking, I’d be feeling a lot worse than I do right now.

Nobody said it was going to be rainbows and glitter, but that doesn’t mean it has to be gray clouds and thorns. Or whatever. I just come up with random bullshit sayings to try to sound clever and existential and cool. And that’s not exactly the way I wanted to end this post, but that’s the ending I’m going with.

[ETA]: I'm grateful I've got enough humility now to not praise myself for being God's gift to recovery. Was I a fucking douchebag or WHAT?

The first week of school isn't over yet, and I already have this sickening feeling that I'm going to fail. I don't feel like I'm performing to expectations at work. The boyfriend who was saying he wants to marry me and have kids now isn't returning my phone calls after I left him a voicemail saying I got the time off from work to go see him. My ex-love interest called me today and yelled at me for being rude (if anyone's ever yelled at me for being rude, I wasn't fully conscious while s/he was doing it) and hung up on me. My psychologist said that something's going to give, and it's going to be my recovery. I'm so tired, irritable, and discontent, and I'm trying really hard to still give a fuck, but the reasons why I should keep going like this just aren't coming to me. The biggest thought that keeps rolling around in my head is that I never wanted this in the first place. I was forced into it, and I only stuck with it because people were making all these promises to me about how good life was going to be. It's not good. It's not fun. There's no joy anymore. I feel like I got sold a shitty deal, or this is some bait-and-switch bullshit. No matter how much I tell myself that I knew this wasn't going to be rainbows and glitter, no matter how many times I hear my counselor saying that this is about learning how to meet life on life's terms, I still can't get over the fact that things aren't better than they were before, and at least before, I didn't have to feel it.

Here's the next (final?) part of my Sorkin/Cheno fic. I don't know how I feel about it. I don't think it has all the punch and pizzazz of the previous two. It's not bad, but it's not great. There's just something about it that's off, and I can't figure out exactly what it is. Feedback appreciated.

Unrelated (or perhaps related... whatever)... I was reading Sorkin's Wiki page, and he went to Hazelden. *smiles* Of course he did. You know that feeling where you've gone to state school and you feel like a schmuck because you didn't go to an ivy league? That's the feeling I've had for a while with regard to Hazelden, and this just perpetuates that. There's kind of an attitude in Minnesota about Hazelden, like if you meet someone who's gone there, you're like, "Ooh, well aren't you special?" Or maybe that's just me. Because I am an asshole. (For those who are confused, Hazelden is pretty much the Harvard of rehab facilities. Their faculty produces tons of treatment literature that's used all over the world. They publish for Dr. Stephanie Covington, who revolutionized women's treatment and literally wrote the book on recovery for women.) Really, pretty much everyone I've met who's working a great recovery program went to Hazelden. The rest of us? Relapsing all over the place. And if that just sparked a moment of concern for you, no, I haven't relapsed. Though last night, I really wanted to. Appletinis and a bump (or three). Gah.

Anyway, here's the fic-snippet:

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School started on Monday. Is overwhelming. Doing lots of homework, did a lab, studying, test prep, was going to take a test today but the testing center was closed. Work in a few minutes, corporate is visiting right now, working 44 hours this week, want to die. numb3rswriteoff due Friday, numb3rsficathon due... sometime. Fics for eppescest due whenever I can get around to them OMFG. Toooo much. Supposed to fly down to Miami in less than two weeks for the weekend. Will need the mini-vacation, but God knows that weekend is going to end up being stressful.

Here's the next part of my Aaron Sorkin/Kristin Chenoweth fic:

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There are two wonderful men that work at Life Time Fitness in Lakeville, and I want to take this time to give them both a shout-out.

The first is Dan Blustin. Dan has become someone very special to me... not quite a father figure, not exactly a role model (not for any reason of defect but because I don't have a proclivity towards idolizing men outside of the literary industry), but something very close to those things. He's an amazing person. He knows about my past as an addict and a stripper, and we have commonalities when it comes to those two aspects. Today, I told asked him if he's ever worked with anyone involved in The Emily Program because I've lately been strongly considering making that phone call for professional help. I said that I don't think I have the desire yet, and I want to see if I can beat this on my own, but I recognize my powerlessness, and in the case of my chemical addiction, it did take going to treatment. I hope this isn't the case with my eating disorder, and I said that I'd first like to try working with a nutritionist. Dan then pointed to Matt.

Matt Berri is a personal trainer, and he's got to be one of the nicest, most real dudes. He spoke to me for an hour about my eating disorder and said some very profound things. He asked me if I like being alive (not asking me to answer to him on this), to think about what I enjoy, and to realize that if I don't repair my relationship with food, I'm not going to be able to enjoy those things (or that one thing) anymore. I told him that I've gotten to the point where the thought of food doesn't do anything for me anymore, I don't crave food, and I eat only when I have to, taking little pleasure in it. He told me that I made myself think this way, and I can reverse it. I have to start thinking about food as fuel, and the reality is that, in starving myself, my body isn't only storing fat, it's actually creating fat. My brain is starting to shut down (true dat). He asked me what's the worst that could happen, and I said, matter of factly, that I'd get fat and disgusting and no one will love me. So he made an amazing deal with me, and I am very grateful. In with that deal, I'm going to start keeping a food journal again - focusing on what I'm eating and how/what I'm feeling. I'm optimistic.

The Emily Program is still on the table if it gets to that point, but right now, I feel like I'm taking steps in the correct direction, and I am getting help in a professional capacity from people I value. Now, don't be confused and think this means I'm going to stop losing weight; I'm just going to go about it in a healthy way. Besides, the route I'm going isn't doing what I want it to.

And I'm going to attempt to write a follow-up of sorts to this post on the subject of weight and fatness. I was going to write it in this post, but I feel that would take away from the point I'm making here, which is Dan Blustin and Matt Berri are lifesavers. Thanks, guys.

First bit of an Aaron Sorkin/Kristin Chenoweth fic I started tonight...

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I got an idea for a video series that I think is pretty stupid and will be completely entertaining for me. It's called iPod Wars, and what I do is sing each song on my iPod until it kicks it my ass. In some cases (Celine Dion) this will be easy, and in others (Britney Spears) the song will go on until the end.

What do you think?

Poll #1245800 iPod Wars
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All

Should I do iPod Wars?

Will you watch iPod Wars?

Yesterday, I finished writing 10 pages - 5650 words - for numb3rswriteoff, and I've decided to not submit it. First of all, it's not good writing. Secondly, it perpetuates the myth that pretty women are obsessed with being pretty, that thin women have eating disorders, and that women in general are inclined to allow themselves to being objectified for profit and/or filling a void. I'm not comfortable with the implication. It's one thing for me to talk about my own obsession with aesthetics and desire to turn objectification for profit here in this journal, but it's another for me to take my pathology and apply it to a fictional female character, especially one that's primarily used as a plot device. I think I owe more to this character because giving in to the compulsion to write her as a weak, stereotypical female character, I'm saying, "Yeah, PTB, it's okay for you to use women as plot devices rather than develop them into pillars of strength."

So I'm attempting to write something new for the writeoff, but if August 29th comes and you see a 5650-word story that sounds like what I've said above, then you'll know that I totally failed. I'm just really struggling to write something that I enjoy.

I just finished watching the CC Roast of Bob Saget. Remember how I said that when comics eat shit, I want to cry? That was Norm MacDonald. He was terrible. It made me sad for him. These are the times when you wish you could rewind the clock and send him some comedy writers to help him along. Cloris Leachman, however, was brilliant, and as always, Greg Giraldo and Jeffrey Ross were wonderful. I adore Jeff Ross. In him, my passion for Jews, comedians, and awkward-looking chubby men become one (perhaps that's why I like David Krumholtz). I wish there were more roasts since that's the only time Jeff Ross gets any work.

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My sponsor's words to me last night must have really done a number on me because I couldn't find the strength to go to work today. I managed to drive to my parents' house to get my work uniform (in fear of falling asleep the whole time during the drive), and after I got my uniform on, I called in to work, said I'd be late, and went back to sleep. At 12:30, I called back in and said I wouldn't be showing up. It's nearly 3:00 now, I'm on my second energy drink, and I still don't feel like moving around to do anything. I really hope this doesn't get me fired; that's the last thing I need. I think it's a combination of the eating disorder, the medication I'm on, and a general feeling of hopelessness.

Another thing my sponsor said that I didn't mention in yesterday's voice post is that maybe I haven't hit my rock bottom yet. She could be right. Maybe occasional prostitution wasn't enough of a low. My parents still want me around. Maybe I need to experience an overdose, homelessness, and getting charged with 25-to-life in a federal prison. Because that would be a rock-bottom for sure. Maybe that's what she's telling me I need to experience before I'm able to completely surrender my will and my life to God and this program. But you know what? That's totally unnecessary. Sure, sometimes I think my life wasn't that bad. Sometimes I remember only the good feelings. But that's just my addict talking to me. Do I really want the degradation of being a stripper again? No, I just want an easier, softer way, and my twisted thinking starts making deals and compromises. I think the important thing for me to keep in mind is that while sometimes I would like to use again, I don't give in to it. I stick to my sobriety because I know it's a life raft.

If I were stranded in the ocean, treading water constantly to keep from drowning, I'd get tired after a while, and I'd want to stop treading. I'd say that death would be easier than this. But I'd keep treading because I'm not ready to die. I'm not ready to give up. It's the same thing with recovery. I know I could stop trying, but if I go back to using, it's only a matter of time before I'm dead, and while I love God, I'm not ready to be with Him yet. So again, I choose recovery today.

I'm going to make some more phone calls today and reach out in the hopes of finding more strength. I can't continue to take blows from my sponsor. As I told my roommate last night, sometimes I think about relapsing just so I won't have to deal with my sponsor anymore, and that's just sick. My roommate asked if she could give me some advice, I said yes, and she recommended that I find a new sponsor as soon as possible.

I think that's what I'll do this evening.

Also, another woman at my meeting last night strongly urged me to stop journaling online. She said that the things I say could come back to haunt me. I already know that. I've been blogging for about six years, and I've had my share of repercussions for my online activity. I've lost hosting over things I've said online, and I would imagine that many of us remember the mess with penguingal and pro_f_iler following a suicide post I wrote two years ago. I understood this woman's concerns, but my head is dangerous territory, and I feel like doing my journaling publicly opens up the mess in my head to others so I can get feedback and be held accountable. Since I do "answer" to my friends list about the things I do, I understand that when I make decisions, they're going online. It helps me to think twice or at least understand that whatever I do, "everyone" is going to know about it. So I plan on continuing with Live Journal, at least for now.

I'm a little disappointed that no one called me last night, but it's okay. I understand that it would be unfair of me to expect people online to drop what they're doing for my benefit when I've done so little to offer that same favor. Let's be honest here; how often do I respond to your posts? So until I step up as a true friend to you (which I don't know that I have the willingness to do yet when I'm still so wrapped up in my own crap), I can't expect anyone to do the same. Guilting someone into doing something is manipulation and taking hostages, and I'm trying very hard to not do that anymore. I owe you all that kind of respect.

A reaction to a reaction to my previous post. WARNING: I get defensive as hell in this video. That doesn't mean I don't mean what I've said; it just means that maybe if I hadn't been speaking off-the-cuff, I would have practiced more restraint.

This would have been posted sooner, but 1) YouTube takes forever to upload and 2) I fell asleep.



I really want to thank everyone who left kind words on my last post, especially the new face (Aimee). I will leave individual responses tomorrow [later today] when I'm more awake. It's not comfortable for me to get as honest as I do on this journal, and your support totally makes it worth it. I understand that I don't talk about pleasant things, but these are real issues. As I said in the above video, it would be very easy for me to come online with a fake persona (I've done it before) so that this can be all fun and games, but I feel I have a real relationship with a lot of the people on my F-list, and I'm not going to cheat others by pretending to be something I'm not. I love you guys.

[ETA] Here's a video I did a week or so ago that I didn't upload until now because I was embarrassed. :D It's me singing Chris Tomlin's "Indescribable." If you don't like the singing (you probably won't), you can at least have a laugh at my expense. Yay for laughter!

Today was a bad day recovery-behavior-wise, and the frustrating thing about it is that a) I was aware of what I was doing and b) I didn’t seem to care.

What’s ridiculous is the hypocrisy of my behavior. I wrote an email to a fellow LJ-er that included my boundaries and being proactive in regard to this behavior even as I was engaging in it. Hypocrite.

Shortly after I woke up, I did some cardio and then took diet pills with Diet Coke. My intention was to eat in a half hour. An hour passed without eating, and I felt nauseous, so I forced myself to throw up. I then took some more diet pills with an energy drink. A while later, I weighed myself because I hadn’t in a few weeks, and I was upset to see that the scale said 126.6. I was sure I would have lost more weight by now. Never mind that I should be proud of having lost 15 pounds since leaving rehab; I’ve been at my current weight for about a month, and I’m not happy about it. A few hours later, I reluctantly ate a piece of string cheese, but I was both cranky that I hadn’t lost more weight and feeling vain about the way I was looking (ironic, I know), so I decided to throw up again. So at that point, all I’d had in my stomach was Diet Coke, half an energy drink, some diet pills, and a piece of string cheese, and I’d purged twice.

Already, we’re talking about some insane behavior.

Then I went to work, and I was so weak that I was dizzy and in a complete daze. I knew that if I didn’t eat something, there was a very real possibility I might not be able to make it through my shift. Over the course of the next several hours, I ate three spoonfuls of soup and a wheat bagel with peanut butter, all the while beating myself up for eating carbs, even if they were complex carbs. I’ve probably had less than 400 calories today, which clearly falls into the category of restriction, yet I can’t seem to stop my desire to throw up again.

This is crazy. I know it is, but I can’t seem to conjure up the desire to quit. The addict in me tells me I’m doing the right thing. It points to a picture of a super-skinny celebrity and tells me I need to be that. First of all, this is the same talk my addict gave me when I was using – telling myself that I needed to drink in order to be creative, never mind the risks to my health because the million-dollar book deal was worth it (though all I was writing was nonprofit fan fiction) and all the good artists either die young or are addicts (or both). Secondly, this obsession with weight is the product of having worked in an industry in which aesthetics pay the bills. I, of course, am once again referring to my former job as a stripper. I got deep enough in the industry that thinness has become one of my core beliefs of survival. I’ve convinced myself that being super-thin is essential for mere existence, and without being thin, one will experience blows to her career and financial success as well as her general outlook on life.

My old lifestyle has me by the throat. I’ve been told that I’m not going to get over this in a few months. Yesterday, my counselor said something to me that was right on the money. She said, “Even 24 years later, when I get into a rough spot, I still say to myself, ‘I know how to fix this.’” That’s the shit right there. I got into stripping without thinking that it was going to have any permanent impact on my life, and what I’ve found is that it’s become my first reaction response to nearly any scenario. Want more time to write? Strip. Want a less stressful job? Strip. Want a Louis Vuitton handbag? Strip. Want to pay off that debt? Strip. It’s constantly in my head as a viable – dare I say a wanted – option, and on a very deep, subconscious level, I think that’s why I’m trying to get so thin. I’m a self-saboteur by nature, and when I finally put the last nail in the coffin with regard to whatever aspect of my life and it all comes crumbling down, I’ll be ready right then and there to just show up at a club, audition, and start dancing that night.

For the last few weeks, I’ve gotten in my head this idea that I’m eventually going to relapse, and I don’t think it has anything to do with a desire to use drugs and alcohol again. I think it’s my excuse to go back to stripping. If I don’t have my sobriety, then I don’t have my friends or my quality of life, and then nothing’s holding me back from stripping. I’m resentful of my recovery because it’s challenging me to not take the easy road – that is to say the road I’ve known. I still have the desire to use sex as a band-aid, to use men as validation, to use manipulation so others will play my little head games, to make fast money so I don’t have to make wise financial decisions. Pardon the TMI, but when I masturbate, I still think of gang bangs and sexual degradation because a) that had been my reality in terms of “intimacy” for a while and b) that’s what I associate with quick money and I don’t think anything turns me on more than money. I’m a very sick person LOL.

Sometimes it feels like this is a chicken-or-the-egg thing. Did my insanity turn me into an addict, or did my addiction turn me into cuckoo-pants? I don’t think it matters, it’s probably the former, either way I have a lot of work to do.

So I’m running on caffeine, diet pills, and something like 400 calories, and though my addict is giving me a big pat on the back for it, I know this isn’t kosher. Recovery 101 says, “I don’t put anything in my body that affects me from the neck down,” and diet pills definitely fall into that no-no category. Obviously, I’m not working the best program. But it is the choice I made, and I can make this choice again tomorrow if that’s the way I want to go. Let’s keep it real here; I can do whatever the hell I want. I can go to the bar and get drunk right now, I can call up an old crack/cocaine connection and get high, and I can drive up to the cities to audition at a strip club. I don’t have to do anything – stay sober, stay clean, stay moral, stay healthy. Fucking up my recovery is always an option. The question then is “but at what cost?”

The point? Today wasn’t a setback. I’m still clean and sober. Today I did things I could have done differently that fall more in line with recovery behavior, and tomorrow I can try again. I’m going to stop beating myself up – whether it’s for eating carbs or for not eating more carbs – and I’m going to ask my Higher Power for a little more strength in the future. It's a different opinion than what I had when I started writing this long-ass post, but that's the deal. Just like that.

I've been thinking about doing a more cohesive archive or maybe moving fics from here over to whereismytalent. I don't know exactly what my plan is yet, but I need your help.

What are your favorite fics of mine?

I'm trying to find out which of my fics are the best ones to include in whatever I end up doing. So if you could please find the time, just leave a comment with a title or link to a fic I've written that you've enjoyed.

Thanks in advance!

the_odd_one recommended that I check out The Killing Joke if I'm interested in more of The Joker, and I read its page on Wikipedia. How utterly fascinating!

I've never been into comics because I loathe that whole masked crusader, vigilante stuff. You had a bad day once upon a time, and so now you put on your tights and go save the world. How fucking noble. Have a cookie. I can't relate to that. My bad experiences just make me hate the world even more. Like today, my sponsor told me that she doesn't think I have the willingness to work my program. Does that kick-start me into working an A+ program? No, it just makes me want to say, "Well, if you feel that way then fuck it." I don't relate to people who go through bad experiences and then want to save the world. But I'm a very bitter and angry person. That's probably why I've empathized more with the villian, provided there's depth to the villian.

When reading the bit of Joker background that was provided in the Wiki article, my heart really went out to the guy. Failed stand-up comedian? Holy shit. I tell ya, I have nothing but oodles of respect for professional comics. Watching a singer bomb or an actor flub his lines just makes me laugh (because I'm cold-hearted), but when comics eat shit, I want to cry. The thing about stand-up comedy is that it's still such a pure art (despite corporatizing by NBC). Music and acting has been corrupted by greed, and I think a lot of people who get into it are motivated by money and fame. It doesn't work that way with stand-up comedy because the chances of being world-renown are very slim... at least as far as I can gather. I've dated a semi-professional drummer, and I've dated a professional comedian, and I have to say that my respect work-wise for the comedian was much greater than for the drummer. The drummer was very proud and egotistical about his work, whereas the comedian was very humble. And it's not entirely a personality thing because they both were narcissistic, especially the comedian (gorgeous man... he was on the Minneapolis auditions for Last Comic Standing for, like, two seconds... with a guitar... in some fucked up mariachi get-up... what the fuck, Dez?) But I'm digressing. I give massive props to stand-up comedians, and nothing hurts my soul more than watching a comedian bomb. I'd rather watch those PETA videos of ferret concentration camps or whatever.

I think The Joker was once a decent, good-hearted dude with a pregnant wife and good job (something at a chemical company) who just wanted to take a shot at his dream. But things went wrong, and shit got fucked, and he stooped to a low level. He didn't even want to go there. Something bad happened, and then a really bad thing happened, and he didn't feel he had any other choice than to go bad. THAT, I can relate to. Started stripping to support my spouse and family, got deep into my addiction, started prostituting myself, played driver for a day for a crack dealer, and I couldn't escape this horrible feeling that I was just waiting to snap and lose my fricking mind. "Go postal," as we kids have called it.

It's this thought of a sexy-ass Heath Ledger as this unnamed man getting on stage with the intention of making people laugh, and he's getting booed night after night when all he wanted to do was bring a little joy to you, he's watching his dreams collapse, seeing his marriage fall apart... it's killing me. And then he agrees to let two robbers into the chemical plant, finds out that his pregnant wife has just died, tries to get out of the plan, gets fucked into sticking with it, gets screwed through the thing, and ends up with this chemical damage. He's left with nothing but two choices - go bad or go good. And what's the point in going good when he's got nothing to go home to? Maybe all he can do is serve as a cautionary tale of what happens when life fucks you and to point out to others that we're all just one bad day away from insanity. I love it. I fricking love it. It breaks my heart, but I'm a sucker for angst.

It's rather intriguing, don't you think?

For those of you who listened to my voice post on Monday, Sue's funeral is tomorrow at 11:00. It was heartbreaking to see her picture and name and information listed in the obituaries yesterday. It still hasn't completely sunk in.

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I want to write The Dark Knight fic.

I am absolutely fascinated by The Joker, and my fascination seems to be growing. I don't know how much it has to do with my interest in Heath Ledger and his death, and how much is out of being intrigued by the character, but for whatever reason, I've got him in my head and this strong compulsion to write an OFC het story.

I just really want to explore him, see if I can break him. Throw this stunning, twisted female character into the mix (the sick fuck's version of Mary Sue, I suppose) and try to make The Joker feel love and compassion. I forsee myself having a difficult time writing it convincingly for the comic book fans out there because I know nothing of The Joker's history, but I don't care all that much because I just really want to take what I know and go with it.

And I need to make some TDK icons. I've been working on a lot of West Wing ones, but I have nothing for a post like this (and any fic that should come).