Tag Archives: Alcohol

My Last Apple

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Two glasses of champagne – in my tummy.

Tuesday night was the first time I have consumed alcohol since I decided it was the major contributor to my Clinical Depression. And while I have occasionally missed the experience of drinking champagne from my hand-blown glasses, the truth is that it hasn’t been difficult.
Even easy.

And I feel fine today, and I felt fine yesterday.

No lingering or niggling feelings of the Blues. I stopped after just two glasses and as I was not ‘topping up’ my alcohol level from any previous drinking sessions, my body metabolised the golden bubbles very quickly.

I do feel a little tired, but that’s only due to my insomnia. An annoying side-effect of The Black Dog that I’ve had for over a decade. I usually feel tired. Most days.

No matter.

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I didn’t think that I could manage to find more ways to cut my living costs – but the truth is that I need to find a way. Despite a part-time job, that I am increasingly grateful for, and avoiding all manner of expensive bibs ‘n bobs like going out, clothes & treats – I still can’t manage to save the money I need to build a kitchen.

So I need to find a new way to get more pennies into my piggy bank.

Buggar!

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 I was blessed with a special gift when I moved into the Purple House. An adult & fruit bearing apple tree – Royal Gala to be precise. How awesome is that?

And while the possums and rats have decimated the tree each summer, I have usually managed to protect at least one piece of fruit, each fruiting season.

Voile curtains have a better use than hanging from a window – like encasing budding apples on a tree to protect them from marauding marsupials!

This year, only one apple survived – which is a shame as I am removing the tree over winter.

.Last Apple

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All fruit trees have a ‘life’ and I’m fairly certain that my apple tree is over thirty years old. I can turn the branches into something crafty and the trunk will make it into the garden as sculptural stands for my numerous terracotta pots.

In it’s place I am planting a row of Peppie trees, so that the possums have somewhere to live and won’t reside in my ceiling any more.

Well that’s the plan, anyway.

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And The Villain Is French Champagne

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Sometime last year, I stumbled across a gem of a find in my local bottle shop (liquor store).
It was a bottle of French Champagne that only cost $20.
Yep – just TWENTY dollars.

And it was good.

But that’s not even the most alluring part of my tale.
This green bottle containing the golden bubbles that travelled all the way from France,
was preservative and chemical free.
And do you know what that translates to?

No hangover!

Grandin_Brut_750ml_300_x_300

Oh em gee.
I had discovered Nirvana.
Well, perhaps a sample of Nirvana.

And so, up until a couple of months ago, whenever I managed to put aside the required $20, I purchased myself a bottle of the wondrous bubbles.
I drank from a traditional champagne glass as seen with Audrey in “Breakfast At Tiffany’s”.
Handblown glass from Vietnam, if you don’t mind!

Audrey

And can you guess what the consequence was?

Actually, there’s no need to guess, just go back and read my posts from the last ten months.
Black.
Hopeless.

I know that in hindsight it seems SO blatantly obvious that the consumption of alcohol would exacerbate my Clinical Depression [or **Asthma as I coded it].
Alcohol is of course technically a Depressant.
Derrrrrrrr, Pia !!!

But I wasn’t partaking of a glass (or ten) EVERY night.
It was just once in a while.
When I could find the money.

Then a few months ago in early July, I decided to reboot my ‘I Quit Sugar’ efforts and give up alcohol at the same time. The process was as simple as that. I haven’t missed the alcohol, but I have missed the action of drinking. The pouring of golden nectar into the cute little glass. The sound of the bubbles as they cascaded into the glass.

Oh my god – the sound of the bubbles!

It just felt awesome to sit at my desk and tap away at my keyboard, pausing every now and then to take a sip. So grown up. So sophisticated. So glam! Ooh la la.

But that has all changed.

And when you no longer drink, can I just say that the consumption of alcohol on tv, movies, etc is actually pretty high. Like WAY high. Whenever Penny on the “Big Bang Theory” is in her flat – she’s drinking wine. Whenever two guys are talking in a movie – they’ve got beer. Whenever a rich movie character gets home – they pour a scotch from a heavy crystal decanter. Next time you turn the tv on or watch a movie, take note. You’ll see what I’m talking about.

But there is a silver lining.

Bit by bit, I appear to be coming out of the darkest, heaviest of fogs.

I’m not getting ahead of myself, I am just making a record for myself. Here on my own Blog.
I no longer consume alcohol,
and my future looks quietly brighter.

“I may just be ok”, she whispers to herself.

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Broken

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I realised two very important things during this past week.

  1. I am Broken – Humpty Dumpty broken
  2. There is a glimmer of hope in knowing how ‘unfair’ the world is, and yet still building a life worth living.

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There is a state that all Mammals are affected by called ‘imprinting’. It is a psychological affect that simply means: meaningful relationships ‘imprint’ certain behavioural expectations for future relationships. Our earliest relationships, i.e. our parents, leave the strongest imprint.

Neither of my parents are particularly great role models. Their behaviour as nuturers is far from favourable.

Now, I have never nor will I ever, blame my parents for how I turned out. Purely and simply – it’s just not helpful. It won’t heal me or help me move forward.

But if I’m being honest with myself, both my parents were terrible Parents. Narcissism was entrenched in both of their psyches, they both drank heavily, they blamed others for their situations in life, they both believed that they were ‘innocents’ being taken advantage of by others and both of them were terrible with money. And they had four children in the space of three years (twins in the middle).

All four of us kids suffered different mental trauma from our parents’ decision making. As I’ve said – I don’t blame them or necessarily hold them accountable. I do however believe that being exposed to two very selfish adults as our first role models, was always going to cause havoc to our growth as healthy human beings.

And it did.

I have been especially conscientious in trying to discover who my Mother was and where she came from. I have been back to her homeland, South Africa, eight times. My siblings have only been twice and once respective to their age, when we all travelled with Mum in our childhoods. My Father refused to ever go with her. In my adult years I attempted to have written relationships via letter and then email, with my cousins and second cousins. I spent time staying with my Mum’s best friend and both of her elder brothers and their wives.

I listened to stories that were full of equal amounts of fact and bias. One of my Tannies (Aunts), couldn’t wait to tell me how selfish my Mum was, when she got  a job as an air hostess and left South Africa in her mid 20’s. Apparently abandoning her parents in the process. Over the years in between and since my visits, I have been able to put together a very accurate picture of my Mother and where she came from. It was a stifling and emotionless upbringing and it’s little wonder that she wanted to escape.

If only she had learnt from all of this experience.

My Father is another another story altogether. I’ll keep it short by saying – he was/is Gay, had a Mother who favoured him and who disliked men (although she had three husbands), has no relationship with any of his three siblings, had no relationship (at all) with his Father, was flamboyant and very social and couldn’t hold down any job for more than two years.

A Role Model of Stability, wouldn’t you say?

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Yesterday one of the few girlfriends that I still allow a relationship with, H, dropped by with a healthy Subway lunch. Despite being utterly flat out in her own busy life, she scrounged the hour to come and see me.

We barely had half an hour of quick ‘what’s happened this week’ exchanges, when an elderly ex-customer from my Purple Paper House days came to the front door.

Now I’m not proud to admit this, but FUCK! – I just wanted an hour with my friend without interruption – so we both just sat still and silent pretending noone was home.

This didn’t deter her!

She went around the back of my property and came in the back door. Fuck!

No hiding now.

So she came in and interrupted our afternoon and talked about herself , etc etc. H of course had to leave (school pickup) and so I was stuck. I’m a really crap liar so I couldn’t find a way to extricate myself from the situation 😦

In the end I just subjugated to her presence, got her a glass of water and offered her a seat. I listened to an hour of her and her husband’s health problems, her son’s love life and money woes, etc, etc. Then, without warning, she turned the conversation onto me and my love life (or lack of) asking where my boyfriend from two year sago was, where my other two (dead) dogs were, was I working, what about my family?

I wasn’t prepared for the constant peppering of questions, and subsequently became ’emotional’. Eventually I blurted out that my life sucked and I was only alive because I had to be.

She then proceeded to apologise, exclaim that it was unfair for me to have to stay alive because others said I had to and finally asked me what manner I had planned to use in case of suicide !!!

I then got a twenty minute run down of the safest ways to kill myself, that were painless and trauma-less (for me assumably). She gave me three solutions of suicide saying a number of time, “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but . . . “. I was also told that I could contact Dr Nietchke but would have to lie about being depressed and possibly my age as well.

I honestly didn’t know what to say. I was dumbstruck!

After she’d been here an hour, she decided to leave.
I felt like crawling into bed and never getting up again.
Ever!

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When you drop a raw egg, it’s not just the shell that breaks.

As the shards of the shell come to rest after a breakage, the real chaos and destruction becomes evident. The life-force of the egg, the yolk, is now compromised. It cannot be ‘put back together again’.

Despite decades of research, therapy and effort I now realise that I have been concentrating my efforts on putting back together my shell. The outer casing that is presumed to be the whole of the entity. I didn’t even think of the yolk.

And I’ve realised this truth, too late!