The End (Part I)

      So much has happened.  I don’t know where to start.

      I’ve written quite a bit, actually, but the drafts are rough or rambling, and I couldn’t finish any of them.  That ought to be one of the formal diagnostic criteria for alcoholism: the inability to finish anything.

       I relapsed and went on a bender.  When I tried to stop, I had a seizure.  I was alone in my bedroom.  I bit the insides of my mouth and bled on my sheets.  It hurt.  All of my muscles and joints hurt for days afterward.

        Terrified, I limped to the ER.  I thought they were just going to examine me and give me some benzos and send me home, but they kept me for two days.  I am grateful for the medical supervision, but the hospital was pretty awful.  Among other things, my bed was next to a crazy homeless lady’s who watched horror and action films on her TV nonstop (she also screamed nonstop, and at one point had to be strapped down).  I’d wake up to the sound of screaming, gunfire, and things blowing up.  It was nightmarish, but not as terrifying as the medical bills are going to be.  

        I was discharged and went back to work.  Between all the IVs and the bruises where blood was drawn, my arms looked like I’d been shooting dope.  An incompetent nurse had even managed to collapse one of my veins.  I was sitting in back spackling the Dermablend onto my arms when one of my friends asked if she could “borrow me” for a second.  We went to one of the rooms in back.

        “What is it?” I asked, as if I didn’t know.

         “Are you okay?  You look unwell.”

         “I am unwell.  I relapsed, had a seizure, and spent two nights in the hospital.”  I didn’t give a fuck who knew. I was not ashamed.  I was beyond that. 

         A normal job would have sent me home, but readers of this blog will know that my secret job is not exactly “normal.”  I was verbal and ambulatory and in the dark I didn’t look so bad and the men were calling for me and I was looking at tens of thousands of dollars in hospital bills for two nights in triage on an Ativan IV drip listening to people being murdered and a screaming schizophrenic, so I stayed.

         The Dermablend just wasn’t cutting it, so I went down to the sex shop on the corner and bought myself some black mesh full-length sleeves to wear on my arms.  PROBLEM SOLVED.

       Something happened to me inside over the next few days.  I might write about it in greater detail when I have the emotional fortitude, but right now, I’m still tired.  All that I can say is that I hit some sort of wall.  I was emotionally depleted.

        I sat down with the Russian manager and told her that I was burned out.

        “We are going to miss you very much, Margo, but you need to get out of here while you still can and have a normal life.  Get out of here and don’t come back.”

        To Be Continued.  So much more to write, but I’m tired, and I want to go back to sleep.

2 thoughts on “The End (Part I)”

  1. miss margo, i am so sorry to hear about your relapse but i’m relieved to know that you are in a safe place now and you have a shot at a normal life.

  2. What Craven said. Here’s hoping life becomes a little less rocky for you. You certainly deserve it!

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