I’m really embarrased to admit this, but I have a hangover. (I’m also embarrased that I still don’t know how to spell embarassed. Two Rs? One? Two Ss? One? One of each? Two of each, one of one, two of the other, or two of one, one of the other? I finally know how to spell occured, but embarrased …that one …well, if it’s on the same pattern as occur, it would be embarras. It looks wrong with just one R, so say it’s two. Or is it embarrass? No, that looks wrong. What about embarass? Hm. That could be right. Okay, then, it’s embarassed. I’ll look it up later. Does my being unsure of its spelling mean I don’t use this word very often, or have I become overly-reliant on spellchecker? Looking at it, I’m almost certain – yes, I am certain – it’s one R, two Ss.)
Anyway, my head hurts. I woke in the middle of the night with my heart racing, my head splitting. I’m an idiot, an embarassed idiot, for overindulging in red wine while making and then eating dinner. Partly I’m just too stressed out by this constant need to cook, to produce meals, and at the same time watch my weight. Sometimes I wish we could just make PBJ sandwiches or something instead of cranking out gourmet meals from scratch. The drinking then turns into both reward and abuse. In today’s meditation, I “felt” about (not thought about, strictly speaking) how I am resisting abuse, yet I inflict it on myself anyway. And then I wondered where this pattern of confusing abuse and love comes from – obviously from childhood. Doing it myself – to myself – as opposed to having it done to me provides, I suppose, an illusion of control. Except the consequences are worse than useless. I can also (I’m embarassed to admit) recall several instances where specifically my mother let me get, essentially, drunk – as a child. The NYE party, a big one at my sister’s house, little me, about nine (or had I turned 10 that year?) in a sparkly party dress and ivory-pearlescent stockings, getting drunk. I have the photo. Or, even earlier, liking the taste of Advocaat, being given it to drink during holiday times. Encouraged to have it. Not normal. Raised by wolves. I wonder where the little self-control I do have comes from. I do know that none of this happened under my father’s (more moralistically inclined) watch. It was always under the tutelage of women (mother, sisters). Plenty of dysfunction in the mother-daughter relationships. Embarassingly plenty. But, see? I’ve learned to spell the word, and I haven’t even looked it up. Pretty sure it’s right.
Maybe I can still fix it, my life. Now, at [age X].
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