Pardon Me While I Totally Unload on You

This one isn't pretty or funny or even easy to read probably. But maybe some of you will identify and I could certainly use some support. Or maybe you should just skip this one, up to you.

I hesitated about whether to write this or not, as I'm sure some of my IRL friends have found their way here. But then, most of my IRL friends are aware of the situation, and if they aren't, it's not like it's really a secret. So, onward.

My parents are alcoholics. They will tell you that they aren't. That they "might indulge a little more than they should" but that they are not in need of any help or harming anyone. They have been for as long as I can remember, if I think back on it, though I didn't really catch on until my first (and only) summer home from college, when I suddenly thought to myself "God, has it always been like this? Or did it get worse after I left?"

The truth is, it had always been like that to varying degress...4 or 5 empty beer cans in the sink by the time dinner was on the table. Entire bottles of wine consumed in one sitting. Bedtime scotch and special occasion tequila shots. Drunken phone calls to my grown sister and midnight ambushes while I was trying to do my homework.

They are both alcoholics, though my father is far less an issue for me than my mother. His general response to drunkeness is to pass out in his recliner in the living room. He doesn't bother me when he's wasted. My mother, on the other hand, reveals all of her very worst qualities when she is hammered. And hammered she is on a regular basis.

Take this scene, for example, on a weeknight last week. Keeping in mind that I have been living there now since mid-March, truly making an effort not to pick fights and to just get along.

Daddy had made steaks and the 3 of us had sat down to dinner at 7:30. Steaks and potatoes and wine. I did not partake of the alcohol. Mom opened a second bottle at about 9pm. She had clearly already had plenty, but suggesting to her that maybe we didn't need another bottle is a battle I no longer try to fight. When we got up from the table shortly thereafter, my father went promptly to bed and I retreated to my bedroom with the door closed for some True Blood before bed.

At 10:45pm I left my room to go out front and retrieve some blankets a friend was returning. I walked back into the house to find my mother sitting in the kitchen floor. I put on my best smile and my perfectly calm and not-at-all-annoyed voice and said,

"Do you need some help?"

"Yes, I suppose I do."

"Did you fall or did you just decide to sit down there?"

"No, I'm just hanging out down here by the [air] vent."

"Are you hot? Would you like me to turn the air down?"

"No, I'm ok now."

"Would you like some help up off the floor?"

"Yes, but I'm afraid I'll just pull you down with me."

She then proceeded to crawl, on her hands and knees, across the kitchen floor, where she reached for the counter top and managed to heave herself, not so steadily, back up to a standing position. I continued to try and be nice:

"Would you like me to help you to bed?"

"I can't go to bed until the kitchen is clean. I need to wake up to a clean kitchen."

"OK, well how about we get you to bed and then I'll take care of it. It will be nice and clean in the morning, I promise."

She ignored me and started hobbling her way around the kitchen, but not before she POURED ANOTHER GLASS OF WINE.

"Can I ask you something?"

"What's that?"
"Why, if you're already so drunk you can barely stand up, are you pouring more wine in your glass?"

"That's a good question. Because the bottle isn't empty, I guess."

I'm not making that up, she actually said that. She refused to leave the kitchen a mess, so I went in to help her and try to speed up the process so that she would GO TO BED before she ended up on the floor again, this time not on purpose. While rinsing dishes she says:

"You think I'm pathetic." (this is a common tactic when she's wasted - guilt)

"No Mama, I don't think you're pathetic." (yes I do)

"Well I AM drunk. And I don't like it either."

"Well Mama, you are the only person who can keep that from happening."

"I know, but that would require self control that I obviously do not have."

"There's help for people who want it, you know."

I should point out here that the subject of AA is not well-received in this house, despite the fact that my mother has a cousin that she adores who has successfully completed the program and is still very active in the community. I do not understand this. I guess it's that whole "the first step is admitting you have a problem" thing. We're not there yet. Anyway, she then says to me, after a few moments pause:

"I know. You're sober and you just have all the answers."

To which I promptely responded "Alright. You can get yourself to bed then." and walked back to my bedroom before I totally lost it. Bitch-slapped her purple teeth out of her purple mouth lost it.

I'm not sure why I even try anymore. There have been many events over the years, total meltdowns and calmer conversations, that have resulted from their complete refusal to acknowledge that they have a problem. It has progressed from both of them vehemently disagreeing with my accusation to each of them telling me separately that they're worried about the other's increasingly ridiculous alcohol habits. It's gone from too many beers before dinner to entire bottles of wine in front of the TV to pouring another scotch at 4am to bosses calling spouses because someone didn't show up for work and no one is answering the phones at home. It is completely and totally out of control. And it angers and saddens me beyond words. Because there have been so many words and not one of them has made a difference.

Sometimes I think I'm getting through to them or we're making progress. Sometimes someone apologizes for how it affects me or one of them says something to the other, supports my cause. But the reality is that they don't want help. They don't want it and they won't get it, whether I use my not-at-all-annoyed voice or my hiccuping-between-sobs voice. I don't know if there's a singular event in the future that might end it or whether it will always be this way. I don't know if it will some day drive us completely apart. Lord knows it's come pretty close in the past.

And you know what the hardest part is? It's not the drunken ambushes, the guilt trips, the face plants in the hallway. It's not the ridiculous dinner conversations or the public embarrassments or the hypocritical statements. It's seeing, almost daily, plain and clear right there in front of me, how much they hate themselves. And the fear that I might someday end up like them.

They are barely functional train wrecks. They have so much practice they can fake it even to themselves. But not to me, (sometimes not-so-)late at night, sitting in the kitchen floor. I know how truly awful it is. How totally out of control. It is a sad, pathetic thing, and it's been going on for 20+ years.

Proving LiLu's Theory

Before you yell at me for not updating since Wednesday, here are my excuses: I didn't blog Thursday because I was all "one day off is no big deal!" Then I didn't blog Friday-Saturday because I was too busy being all honeymoon phase-y with the boy. I could have blogged last night, but then it occurred to me that, why would I spend time I could be catching up on sleep Sunday night when I could spend time I will desperately need something to do at work on Monday?

OK, now you can yell.

Feel better? Good. Now that we've got that out of the way, on to the post I could have written last night but put off until today.

Oh, also, before you start, if you'd like the title of this post to make any sense to you, you should go read LiLu's theory on relationships if you haven't already. That chick's a genius (and also fall out of your office chair, snort in your cube funny).

For those of you too lazy/lame to read the post, LiLu's theory is that the person you're meant to be with is the one who can tolerate your kind of crazy. Because we are all a little crazy. Past experiences inevitably leave us a lot smarter but also a little bit scarred. It's as true for men as it is for women, but most men are a little bit better at keeping their crazy under wraps.

I had my first mini-meltdown of my relationship with Babe this weekend. Now, I don't want to go into the gory details for a lot of reasons including his privacy, but suffice it to say that there was some major drama involved in his last relationship before me and I am the first girl he's really dated since then (1.5 years ago). Said drama has...slightly amplified my otherwise "normal" early-relationship jitters. So really, it's saying something that I kept my shit together as long as I did. Especially since our favorite activity involves consuming lots of alcohol (ok, it IS consuming lots of alcohol).

When I got over to his place on Friday, he was super sweet. We cuddled on the couch watching TV and he played with my hair and scratched my back, things he knows I like and therefore made me very happy. When we were ready for dinner, we walked over and got some pizza, and then when we heard from our friends, we headed out for a night of drinking games.

Now. I am no longer the lightweight I once was when it comes to alcohol, especially beer. I can now put that shit away without suffering too thoroughly most of the time. However. We played Fuck the Dealer and guess who was the dealer at the end of the game? I think I consumed 2 whole beers in about 5 minutes. Which wouldn't be too terrible, except that kind of drinking takes a little while to catch up with you (and also they were probably beers 5 and 6 of the evening). I won't mention any names, but somebody flashed the guys she was playing in beer pong to distract them later that evening. She was pretty wasted.

When it was time to go home, Babe (who had stopped drinking a while before so he could drive and was, therefore, significantly more sober than I was) packed me up and hauled me away. And for some reason I'm not even sure my drunk self could figure out, I started a fight. About politics. On a Friday night, while drunk, with my new boyfriend. Because I had been bottling up a lot of crazy, I guess, and it got the better of me. He had some personal experience with the topic at hand and was not 1) too sure why I felt the need to bring it up or 2) why I was so upset with him when, at no point, had he disagreed with me. I cannot answer either of these questions. Because I'm special, I guess.

So we got home and, despite the fact that I had stormed away from the car and was still very hostile, he made me cinnamon toast (probably in an effort to sober me up some). And then I continued to argue/cry and generally be a supreme pain in the ass until he finally fought back a little and made me feel really awful for bringing it up at all (which was totally legitimate, let's be honest). Then he left me on the couch and went upstairs.

I sat there trying to get my shit together and decide whether I was going to go upstairs and try to fix it or stay mad and let him go to bed or whatever. About 5 mins later I went up and, still a little sniffley, told him that I was sorry if I upset him and that wasn't my intention, but at the same time, the points I had made were important to me and if that was an issue for him, then maybe we weren't supposed to work out. Because I have totally been that girl who takes it all back and just wants to fix it, and that doesn't end well. So I went with the middle ground, and hoped for the best.

He came over and gave me a big hug and suggested we go back downstairs and finish a movie we'd been watching earlier. That it was ok that I'd lost it a little, he had his moments too, and maybe I should have quit drinking after Fuck the Dealer. I nodded my head and we went downstairs. Where I proceeded to watch the movie with my head on his shoulder and one eye closed because otherwise I had double vision. Yeah, a little too much to drink.

About 15 minutes after we'd gone back downstairs, while he stroked my hair with my head on his shoulder, he kissed my forehead and told me "don't worry, I don't give up that easily. It's going to take a lot more than that to run me off." And I swallowed away some more tears and told him "I'm really glad to hear you say that."

And so, my friends, example 57,348,941 of LiLu's Love Theory. He gets my kind of crazy. And he knows exactly what to do to make it better.

Thank God. Cause I would have been pretty bummed if I'd sent him packing.

We spent the rest of the weekend being a ridiculously cute couple. We went to see District 9 on Saturday night and he held my hand/had his arm around me through the whole movie. And he was worried when I kept looking away from all the icky alien grossness that I didn't like the movie (which I did, it was excellent, if a little vomit-y/violent).

Tonight I'm going over to make lasagna for him, his brother and his brother's roommate, the Social Broker. In case you didn't know, I make the best lasagna you'll ever eat. I'm pretty psyched.

Crunching Numbers

Alternate post title: Sweet Baby Jesus, I might not have to live at home much longer!

Hi, my name is Mary and I am a spendaholic. I have acquired some (*ahem* a lot) of debt as a result of this addiction. This debt is the main reason that, at 24 years old, with a Bachelor's degree and full-time job, I live with my parents. Don't think I don't kick myself in the ass at least 10x daily for that one, believe me.

However! Due to a combination of factors and some badass luck on my part, I might be able to get out by October 1st. Yes! That's right folks! A measly 4 months after moving in! It's a Chrismukkah in July miracle!

Okay, sorry. Got a little carried away with the exclamation points.

A fabulous friend has offered me her spare bedroom at way cheaper than I could get a place on my own. I have finally consolidated payments and blah blah blah down to one monthly payment, so that I know exactly how much I owe monthly and when. I will be teaching Sunday School in the fall, increasing my income slightly (veeerrrryyyyy slightly). And since I'll be teaching Sunday School, hopefully I won't be spending quite so much money on booze. Right.

So the goal is October 1st. There are a few more things to get in order/check into, but I think it's going to work. And it couldn't come soon enough because, well...there's a boy. And I like him and he likes me and we like having sex. And, well yeah. Refer to the rules.

So do me a favor and send positive thoughts (or donations!) my way. I need out.

Sharky is so mad at me right now...

Ack! So the thing about being super social is that it takes up time you used to spend on nerdy things like...blogging. Oops! Couple that with a busy week at work and a gimpy finger (currently splinted, please excuse any typos), and you get an out of date blog. Sorry.

So let's see, what did we miss? Well, Tuesday night we lost to a kickball team with only 8 players. That was...sad. Thursday night softball, the other team didn't even show up! We took batting practice (and I hit a lot of ground balls right to infielders :p) and then I met the kickball boys at their kickball bar. Friday night was their league's mid-season party (are we sensing a trend here?). I definitely got the most drunk I've been in a while...oops. But I think I'm slowly making new girlfriends (Hi Kat and Lisa)!

Saturday was my second in a row with rented movies and pleasant company...we watched Taken (which I'd seen and liked) and Righteous Kill (which I sort of slept through some of but wasn't impressed). I spent Sunday in bed watching a Harry Potter marathon on ABC Family because I. am. that. awesome. Not sure whether I'll try to see the new one this weekend...it's going to be a mob scene of nauseatingly spoiled rotten preteen girls. Not really my scene.

Those are the highlights, I guess. Tonight is the first week of playoffs for kickball (read: our last week of kickball since we can't beat anyone)...I made jello shots. Thursday is a double header for softball (also playoffs). I'm sure I'll cram some more heavy drinking in there somewhere.

Thirsty Girl

So the thing about being in your mid-twenties is that most social interactions with peers tend to revolve around drinking. As someone who never really did the hardcore drinking thing in high school or even college, this is something that I've struggled with in the past. And by struggled with, I mean I just pussied out and never hung out with anyone as a result.

Apparently, I'm over it. I have been out every night but Sunday since last Saturday. And I have consumed beer at every function. Sometimes lots of it. At Trent and Todd's Awesome Fourth of July Party last night I probably had...I don't really want to guess. A lot of beer. And I never really got all that drunk.

So yeah, I'm pretty sure my tolerance has doubled in the last two weeks. I'm not sure whether to be impressed or embarrassed. I'm going with impressed for now...you're only 24 once, right?

Cramping My Style

One of the things I've really been making an effort to do since breaking up with the bf/moving home has been to get out and do new things and meet new people. I was ridiculously anti-social for the duration of my last relationship, and I came out of it feeling very much like I had no friends and no life and a little lost because of it.

Since the kickball season started in mid-May, my social schedule has picked up enormously, thanks in large part to 2 good friends on the team. They're both wonderful about keeping me filled in on the latest plans and prodding me to get out and join them when I'm feeling like just staying in. One of them managed to get me out all weekend this weekend, and he wasn't even in town until Saturday night!

Friday night was the kickball Mid Season Party. Our team had a pretty sad showing, but those of us who were there consumed plenty of free beer and stayed out til about 1:30. I woke up at 8:30 on Saturday (damn you, work schedule) and got up and moving. I met up with some of the same guys from the night before at a pool party around 2 and proceeded to drink all.day.long. In the sun. I showed up at home at about 7pm, still pretty drunk, with the plan to clean up, take a quick nap, and go back out, this time with the addition of my Friendship Broker, who had just returned from out of town.

I showered and then laid down to pass the fuck out. For about twenty minutes. At which point the guys called and said it was time to get moving, we were gearing up for round 2. By the time I got dressed and to their house, I was maybe 90% sober and really not sure who the hell I thought I was, that I was going to keep drinking after the day I'd had. But rally I did, and when 2am rolled around and they were throwing us out of the bar, I was like "Really? It doesn't even seem that late!" So then I went back to my friends' house and proceeded to stay up til 5am talking and watching movies on TV.

So I spent 2 nights on friends' couches and drank more beer than I usually consume in, oh I don't know, months. I slept less than 8 hours between the 2 nights and still managed to make it through most of today. My favorite part, though was when I got the lecture about driving home from the pool not entirely sober. Wherein my dad proceeded to tell me, after I pointed out that he was a GINORMOUS hypocrite, that he was allowed to do it because he's had 40 years of practice. Well Daddy, we've all go to start somewhere!

Going out and being a twenty-something is a lot harder when your parents can see the aftermath. I came home twice in what I left in the night before and I didn't even hook up. Because who's going to drive you to your parents' house, drunk, in the middle of the night? All I have to say is, my friends are saints, and I appreciate all the future nights they'll be letting me spend on their couches and the basketball shorts and tshirts they'll be loaning me to sleep in. And this young and single thing? It's fun.