my tongue should be registered.
for a number of purposes.
but the most regular use it`s getting these days is spewing forth the vitriol that is building in my veins.
i am a bottler. i have always been.
my mother on the other hand is the continuous nagging sort. she`ll nag about the same thing for years, not figuratively, literally.
when i was 18, just before i moved out of the house, i used to work at a bar. one wednesday night, i had worked the day shift and was hanging out with the night shift guys, before i headed home, we were young and bored and came up with the brilliant idea, for me, the one with the alcoholic genes, who had never been drunk before, to see how many black russians i could consume in a minute. a black russian is coffee liquor and vodka. [a couple of things to note, all of which i learned afterwards. alcohol and sugar metabolise really quickly in my bloodstream causing me to get stinkingly drunk.]
on with our story, i had five of these concoctions in a minute, the ice was still in the glass when i was finished. moments later i realised and i hadn`t eaten for the day and thought a burger and fries would be a brilliant idea. [other note, bad, bad, bad, horrendous fucking idea]
i had lunch/dinner/supper whatever you wanted to call and immediately felt sick, i proceeded to stagger my way to the bathroom and hurl in epic proportions everything i`d eaten in the last 48 hours i believe. [why do i recall this so clearly? well ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this was my first drunk episode].
after the epic worship of the porcelain goddess, i bobbed and weaved my way back to the bar, put my head down and told them to wake me, when they were closing. they did or they tried. i was out like a light or not completely coherent. [the rest of this tale is hearsay, as i have no recollection]
the bouncers, managed to get me into a taxi and tell the driver where my house was. although in the midst of my drunken stupor i did manage to get him to stop in front of my house. getting out of the car was another matter.
the final indignity of the night was the driver, ringing the doorbell at close to 2am at which point my mother and the driver, had to pick me up and put me in my bed.
i got up the next morning thanks to genetics, hangover free, much to my mother`s chagrin. i didn`t hear the end of it til i finally moved out or so i though.
fast forward, carnival 1999, i think, i show up on my mother doorstep with a beer in hand. she looks me in the eye and says…
“you drinking again? you remember what happened the last time you drank? i had to pick you up and put you in your bed”
and that in a nutshell is my mother.
i am the diametric opposite, i will bottle for years. hurt, anger, frustration, disappointment. there are all these neat compartments where i store these things. every now and then there is a crack in the facade and then the full force of my collected wrath is directed at even the most miniscule indiscretion.
i`ve made an attempt to stop but all the anger and frustration of the last two years are building and as much as this helps, it`s merely a siphon. i need an outlet, a release. the facade of holding it together is beginning to crack. and friday`s news was a major blow.
this not about giving up on vic or loving her any less or believing that we`ll not be together but i need to find a way to deal with the all ancillary stuff or it`s going to blow up at the wrong time and wrong person. i need a good cry, a good scream, an outlet in a major way.
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anger, mother, drinking story, vitriol, frustration
