Before the most fantastic shitsplosion evacuated its’ bowels all over my fragile psyche? So, I’m still doing that.

Here’s the latest chapter. when I quit drinking, and it WORKED, I started really juicing up on the practically incandescent notion that my behavior and my values finally matched. As time has gone by, I’ve started to be a little suspicious of that satisfied feeling. Here’s why: I’m really judgy about other peoples’ drinking. And I don’t notice it until I’m already holier than thou-ing my smarmy little buns through my nightly ablutions.

That, coupled with my desire to explain to the parking attendant why she should eat kale, or sneering at the person complaining about her allergies and buying Febreeze, or telepathically rolling my eyes at the co-worker who is so lonely but just can’t stand to bring herself to go to ANY SOCIAL EVENTS EVER, has made me realize that I might be binging on something I would never have considered: control.

I have a counselor (NO WAY, RIGHT), and we were talking the other day about my strange recalcitrance in forming close friendships. She was saying how this made sense for an abused kid, and she characterized it as this sweet and sad thing, little me inside o big me, afraid to trust anyone and be close. But, I said, it’s actually ugly. I don’t allow anyone dangerous to get close at all. I’m not vulnerable because I am always in control.

Was I drinking so much to be in control of my feelings, or to be free of the need to control everything? Maybe both. But here, at the center of my swirling miasma of shitty coping strategies, one very important clue: control.

And now that I’m not drinking, I’m binging on that. Which is the next thing I’d like to stop abusing.