I have a glass of chardonnay in one hand and a cigarette in the other. And I’m sitting in my garden alone except for my beloved laptop. Here we go again for another psychoanalysis session. I think I have the makings of an alcoholic. I’ve spent so many days these past weeks with only the company of a nearly full bottle of Merlot wine and a pack of cigarettes. Let me recommend Hardy’s. Inexpensive but good.
So, Carrie Bradshaw-like, lets emphasize a question. How will you fix yourself if you don’t even know what’s depressing you? Really, my ability to depress myself is amazing. I’m quite talented at it–well, either that or I just don’t have the capacity to fight against it anymore.
Sometimes, I just want to quit everything I’m doing. I specifically want to resign from begging money from corporations and from letting my own groupmates take for granted that I’ll do everything or talk me into doing things on the argument that I’m the one who knows what she’s doing. But I can’t. I care too much over how that will reflect on me. I care too much what people think. And that, I think, is what is depressing me most of all. That is the root of all my problems–and they’re god-awful problems. Believe me.
That’s why I feel like disappearing and becoming a contemplative nun–away from everyone. From social pressures, from social judgments, from social norms.
If nuns could smuggle a whole wine cellar in the convent, believe me, I would be taking my vows faster than you can say “Sound of Music.”
Question answered, I guess. This alcohol/nicotine-induced psychoanalysis works everytime.
