Hurricane

(2 May 2011)

Common metaphors used by alcoholics for the state in which they find their life when they’ve hit their bottom, that is, when they’re ready to reach out for help, include shipwreck, train wreck, airplane wreck, and so forth.  The wreckage is always extensive.  I’ve been in the rooms for 11 years now, relapsing frequently, much to my bafflement and frustration, and hitting bottom after bottom.    I’m the state of Louisiana, hurricane Katrina swept through my life.  And here I am sorting through the wreckage, once again attempting to rebuild, jury-rigging with the materials on hand.  I always seem to find myself in a new room, though sometimes just a metaphorical one, when I begin rebuilding.  I’m always excited at the prospect, although I know at my age, with all the years where I could’ve been productive had my path been different, the life that I will be able to build will be a far cry from the one I imagined when I was young and full of potential.  I was first diagnosed with bipolar disorder in 1997, but had already been suffering from it for years, and had had my first full blown clinical depression at the age of thirteen.  There was no way my life was going to follow the path I desired.  As an alcoholic, I was a late bloomer, I didn’t become alcoholic until the age of 25, but it hit hard and fast, and has ravaged the past 22 years of my life.

Speaking of rooms, while I was in the middle of a deep depression, my landlady illegally kicked me out of the apartment that I’d renovated.  (She lied to the judge, and I didn’t feel up to suing her.)  Too depressed to pack, a friend came by and did all of the packing, then a group of friends helped me move most of my stuff to a storage unit, and a minimum to my new room which is a third the size of my old one.  Another friend helped me unpack my boxes, because again I was too paralyzed to take on the task myself.  I’ve been here six years now, and it still looks like hurricane Katrina swept through yesterday.  The room is too small to organize and store things properly, and although I got rid of three quarters of my stuff, I still have too much jammed in here, even though I’m down to the things I really want to keep.  There are piles everywhere and nowhere to organize them.  To make matters worse, while in the room I renovated, the depression I was suffering was so deep that I could barely get out of bed to pee, much less shower, and I became truly slothful.  The slothfulness followed me here.  For some reason I can’t shake it.  I’m constantly hacking back at the jungle, which grows back just as quickly.  So now, rather than focus on the room, I focus on my writing, and what I can do outside, the classes I’m taking, and meetings.  This physical room is temporary, and I’ll never be able to reconstruct the way in the way I’d like.  Temporary takes on a new meaning here.  Apartments in Paris are not only expensive, but getting into one requires heaps of paperwork and documents that I don’t possess, as well as a personal guarantor who is legally obliged to pay your rent if you can’t.  This is because it’s so hard for landlords to get rid of tenants.  So I’m going to be stuck here for some time.  And I’m hoping that I’ll be successful at rebuilding from an internal, psychological, sense, as well as in the external world.

Copyright © 2011