Day 97 | Indulging in the Drinkeepoo 1 Night a Week | Down 36 Pounds, 30 to Go
Remember when you were 21 and could pound the beers and cruise through a 25-mile bike ride without really feeling like crap the following day? Could lift, shoot hoops, do step aerobics? Wearing a smile?
50 is not 21. Or 30 or 40.
Let’s migrate. Move. Transition.
If you’re interested in learning my identity as a writer, avid cyclist and dog lover, sign up to follow Nurture is My Nature. You can also follow me on Twitter @love4servicedog. I’ve got to get some serious “social” going as I will be in Santa Barbara in October to promote the launch of the anthology—Unmasked, Women Write About Sex & Intimacy After Fifty—in which my work is featured.
What’s my bit?
Is sex what I usually write about?
Along with experiences encountered on the road riding my bike (which can be just as thrilling as sex but twice as dangerous). And my service dog, Sabrina (a case of “who rescued who”). And a gruesome suicide that happened in my family on Thanksgiving morning just as the sun was coming up (can this really be happening?). And dirty martinis (“alcohol is like love. The first kiss is magic, the second is intimate, the third is routine. After that you take the girl’s clothes off”). And other things that have been published by lit journals and media outlets, but I don’t share publicly because my family would inflict cruel and unusual punishment upon my person.
Oh, but I got daring, and posted this little free-writing bit (that saved my life) that recently got picked up by a journal in Orange, CA.
Why we write.
What’s it got to do with?
The reason behind getting so hammered you trip over the rabbit’s cage and in the process of breaking your leg, you nearly kill your beloved fur ball.
You might say, months post-discovery, that I’m on a journey of healing (and moderation). It took me 33 years to uncover the pain, in these few sentences—it’s true shape and form—and why it exists.
And now what?
It’s time to move on.
The impact of loss scars the heart and you go on living your life ’cause you’re young and have to conform and can’t fall apart and you don’t realize those wounds are still there, throbbing raw, the fibers of tissue meshing over that open gap of mess. You don’t realize you mask that pain with the alcohol thirty fucking years later, that there’s a reason why you drink until the TV and the stand it rests on becomes unhinged.
You write and write and write. For seven years, straight, you do nothing but write and you’re told your writing has no depth or meaning. You keep writing because you’re still madly and blindly driven to it despite having lost all your assets and pockets are filled with nothing but dust and lint. You’re there writing, looking up the definition of a word online, fact checking, and you read, alcoholism is a well-documented pathological reaction to unresolved grief and glance down at the billionth line you just put in black and white and Jesus, the whole goddamn story comes clear.
The whole goddamn story is clear.
If you’re getting hammered every night, there’s a reason why.
Discover the reason.
Dig, ask, feel, rummage, ruminate.
See you on Nurture is My Nature.