It’s just a simple picture. A bartender in only a bra, leaning over the bar and blowing a kiss to the camera operator. Mostly, it’s just sad. She’s old, but trying so hard not to be. The picture is from a bachelor party in Tahoe. I don’t understand Tahoe, or bachelor parties, or gambling. It’s all like the bartender, old, tired, and trying so hard not to be. Not that I don’t like to have fun. Drinking is one of my favorite pastimes. I recently went to see a therapist (a licensed clinical social worker (LCSW)actually, I’m not even sure that requires a degree). She told me I had to stop drinking if I wanted to be healthy. I told her I would meet her halfway and stop drinking alone. Apparently that was not an option. I strung her along for awhile, lying of course. Addicts are masters of fabrication. Eventually, after two months on Prozac, I figured I had felt calm for long enough that I could handle it on my own. So I quit, Cold Turkey. It turns out that staying relaxed is not so easy to do on your own. Even as I write this I am a state of calm induced by Jack and Coke with a Percocet chaser. A beautiful feeling really, warm and little itchy. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t hate the Prozac. In fact it gave me a rebirth, of sorts. I had spent so long in a stressed out depression that I couldn’t remember how to be myself. After two months of mellow, zombieishness, I feel like me again. I haven’t felt like me in years. Another beautiful feeling.
The picture, mentioned above, was taken by my then fiancé, now husband. He wanted to show me the tragedy of being a cougar. He likes me drunk. He says I’m funny. Plus I like to be ravaged when I’m drunk. He likes that too. Honestly I think he was as upset as I was at the LCSW for trying to make me stop drinking. He took polls of all the people he knew to see if it sounded like I had a problem. Turns out I’m a lot like everyone I know. Except my husband. I think the last time he was drunk was four years ago in our apartment. He ripped off his underwear and threw it off our balcony, to his fans. Now he just takes care of me when I’m drunk. I like it that way. I always feel safe with him. He’s a very good babysitter.
The Physician’s Assistant (PA), who gave me the Prozac, also gave me Wellbutrin, which, combined with alcohol, can cause seizures. I took it for two weeks and was ready to kill myself. I mean that too. The PA also gave me Trazodone. Now this one I like, it’s an anti-depressant that makes you sleep. And dream. The dreams are violent and bloody. I’m ok with that though. That’s how my dreams have always been. People say that if you die in your dreams you will die in real life. Not true. I have been beaten to death, killed in car accidents, shot, committed suicide, stabbed, and I can’t even remember what else in dreams. I’m still alive. This Trazodone though, every morning I wake up bloody in my mind. It’s revitalizing. Trazodone is perfect with Percocet. It’s hard to sleep on Percocet unless you have Trazodone. Tylenol PM is good too, but supposedly it’s bad for your liver.
I wonder what kinds of drugs cougars get thrown at them. They must be lonely. How could someone be a bartender and not drink? Maybe they all get Wellbutrin.
