The past two days have been interesting to say the least. For no apparent reason (other than my own self obsession) I found myself squeezed into the bowels of depression, forced along by peristaltic waves of woe until I impacted myself on an impromptu career crisis. Then reached a cathartic actualisation thanks to a quick chat with my NOvember compatriot (in yet another flagrant misuse of the company Chat Client), realised that I'm just as damaged as everyone else despite my best efforts of denial and then I finally clawed my disillusioned world weary self off HR's Sofa and gave myself a stern telling off for being such a Victim. Then I went home, went to bed, and woke up to a new day.
Today was distracting. Despite a 7am start to administer some hard earned nightshift knowledge to a few of my Team Leaders (The infamous NateDogg Teach) I spent the rest of the day covering induction training for one of my coworkers who is busy getting annihilated up in Brisbane. There's something about moulding young, impressionable minds that really appeals to my Napolenic complex, and it pleased me.
Not drinking has led to a number of realisations. First, my skin looks amazing and my youthful (non Australian) visage is looking even more, well, youthful. Other Epiphanies include (but not limited to):
1) Dealing with emotions instead of numbing them is about as pleasurable as shoving a wasp's nest up your backside. I have yet to find any advantages.
2) The work day is a bit bleaker when you don't have the proverbial alcoholic light at the end of the tunnel that lights up your soul like the rays of dawn reflected on the shimmering whispy clouds of contentment.
3) I'm much more analytical than I thought.
4) I needed this dry spell a lot more than I thought.
So let's move quickly on to the big, fat, single, moralising, wine guzzling, chain smoking elephant in the room. I am a terminal bachelor and it is not by choice. Gallavanting man-about-town-image aside, for the past three years I've lived a life devoid of passion, solely on my own terms and essentially surviving on my wits alone, with a lot of help from my friends. Those of us not fortunate enough to be blessed with good looks tend to have to rely upon our intelligence, wit, a shitload of Melanotan and the occaisional tranquilising Rx to get by- it's not an ideal situation and I wouldn't wish average looks on my worst enemy (yes, I am that superficial) , but it makes life interesting and gives us less-than-perfect looking people a source of moral superiority. After all- our hot contemporaries will eventually suffer the ravages of age, whereas we'll have personalities to fall back on. Of course they'll be happily married with kids and ultimately grandchildren, and we'll have our cats and partial liver failure, but at least we'll be interesting. If anyone cares to listen.
But I digress. The Sydney dating scene is poison to the soul- to the point where I haven't bothered in years. The occaisional ongoing pelvic affiliate aside, I can honestly say I've been lonley since I arrived here. I'm not entirely complaining- it gives me something to talk about with my Circuit Training buddy every Thursday while we're punished by a triathelete Amazon who sports muscles I never even knew existed. Standard lines of conversation go like so:
Me: Seriously- what is with these bloody men. If it's not intimacy issues, it's insecurity and the petty need to feel in control and toy with me like a cat and a ball of string that gives them some source of sick gratification?
Circuit Buddy: I haven't given up hope yet, but I'm sick of wasting time as well. But these fucking men who date for convenience- I can't stand it.
Me: Ugh- I think I'm beyond hope and have just stopped caring.
Circuit Buddy: Anyone new?
Me: Nope.
"Next Circuit!"
Today Mistress was less than kind to my frail frame. Instead of the normal two person teams it was individual circuit mixed with running, so I didn't get adequate opportunity to vent save for the walk back to the office. It was a beautiful sunny day in Centennial Park but it wasn't the same concentrating solely on exercises without simulataneously whinging about anything unfortunate enough to possess a penis.
And I needed it. I was asked out by an aquaintance last night. I was quite flattered- ok, a date- what's the worst that can happen? (Well, other than syphilis). Then I get 'The Compliment'. It started innocuously enough- typical 'I always thought you were really cute'. Awww- I may be one of the most emotionally walled people on the planet- and that's in addition to the fact that I'm so numbed by cynicism I need to jump off bridges or out of perfectly good airplanes in order to feel anything, but I'm easily melted with flattery. I even smiled.
Then the rest of the so called compliment crept up with the subtlety of a Hydrogen Bomb. 'You have that cute Scally look to you'.
Yes- the way to perk my interest is to completely assualt my intelligence by equating me to a piece of council estate trash to be treated as a playtime diversion fulfilling some sick dominating fantasy starring a baseball cap and pair of tracky bottoms. Set in a public toilet in Redfern. I felt so essentialised and objectified I couldn't help but turn my phone off before promptly proceeding to burn my bra.
"Next Circuit!"
Tomorrow heralds the Great Cigarette Experiment of 2011. Im challenging my sober self to survive a weekend without sucking back the life giving tar, cyanide, and miscellaneous chemical goodies of a single fitness stick= without the aid of Nicotine Replacement Therapy. For those of you who don't know me well, my Nicotine withdrawals are nothing short of legendary. My doctor once told me that my dependence is so severe I am one of the only people he would ever give prescription Rx's to to combat 'Acute Nicotine Withdrawal Sydnrome'. Here's why- I'm naturally anxious- not clinical anxiety, but I'm generally wound far too tightly. Its a symptom of extreme intelligence *pats ego*. My teenage years being no picnic, I turned to cigarettes as a source of love, comfort, and stability and they've been steadfastly loyal ever since.
The problem with me is the physical withdrawal symptoms. After a day without smoking I would normally be found curled up in a ball with a blanket over my head, rocking back and forth doing anything I possibly could to avoid looking at the baby crawling across the ceiling. My last quitting attempt earned me the nickname 'Gimme' (of United States of Tara fame). I get physically sick- nausea, headaches, flu symptoms. I become an emotional wreck- level headed and rational Nicotine Nathan defenestrates itself and I alternate between screaming, crying, laughing, and fantasising about lengths of rope and exposed beams. It's not a dependence I'm proud of- but I admit, I am a serious tobacco user and I have a problem.
I've tried everything to mitigate the symptoms. Nicotine patches (if you put on two patches, do some cardio such as going for a 30 minute run, and then have a cigarette, you spend the rest of the day riding that wave of timeless pleasure). Nicotine gum (if you combine 3 pieces you can blow bubbles with it). The inhalator (conveniently fits into a nostril). Zyban (ever laughed and cried at the same time?). Champix (I haven't felt this numb since my last relationship). Nicotine Free cigarettes (I haven't been this disappointed since the last time I had sex).
So I'm taking a new approach. Sedatives. Enough to get me through the worst of the withdrawal (the first three days) to prove to myself that I CAN survive it. It's just til Monday. I can have a cigarette then. 72 hours can't kill me.
I can do it- right?
No comments:
Post a Comment