Escapism
Alcoholism runs in my family. I suppose that I, thinking I was a rational individual, could escape the same fate as my predecessors; however, it would appear that I was wrong. I like drinking, and I enjoy it different ways at different times. In the presence of good company, it is as it was intended: something to be enjoyed. In my solitude, though, I find that alcohol helps me to cope with the overwhelming feelings that seem to flood my mind.
I have my good days. Nothing seems to bother me, and everything is on the up and up; of course, this seems a temporary kind of thing. I find myself, more and more, finding solace in the bottom of a bottle when my own doubts and insecurities overwhelm me. I'm not talking about drinking to the point of killing myself; I am, however, talking about drinking just enough to push the very things from my mind that I need to confront. I've never been good with feelings, and I've never been good at dealing with the feelings of others.
I wanted to die. I know that sounds dramatic... but it's true. I'd never take my own life, ever. I can't reconcile suicide as an escape plan with my own personal ethos; but, that sick kind of acceptance is there. The idea that life isn't worth living, the idea that my life, in specific, isn't worth living. I don't know why I feel like that, but I do know that I don't want to be "here." I don't want to feel like I lack the very things that make a life worth living, and yet I do.
I'm going to be seeing a psychiatrist about this, hopefully. I want to understand this, to treat it. I want to enjoy the time I've been given.
I have my good days. Nothing seems to bother me, and everything is on the up and up; of course, this seems a temporary kind of thing. I find myself, more and more, finding solace in the bottom of a bottle when my own doubts and insecurities overwhelm me. I'm not talking about drinking to the point of killing myself; I am, however, talking about drinking just enough to push the very things from my mind that I need to confront. I've never been good with feelings, and I've never been good at dealing with the feelings of others.
I wanted to die. I know that sounds dramatic... but it's true. I'd never take my own life, ever. I can't reconcile suicide as an escape plan with my own personal ethos; but, that sick kind of acceptance is there. The idea that life isn't worth living, the idea that my life, in specific, isn't worth living. I don't know why I feel like that, but I do know that I don't want to be "here." I don't want to feel like I lack the very things that make a life worth living, and yet I do.
I'm going to be seeing a psychiatrist about this, hopefully. I want to understand this, to treat it. I want to enjoy the time I've been given.