Today's life lesson is this:
Don't engage in an activity if, on the basis of what you know about yourself and the activity, there are reasonable grounds for believing it will likely be injuriously habit-forming.
It's not pithy; I'll work on it later. What brings it to mind is my need for a good old moan at the moment.
I'm a touch unwell just now.
I started using alcohol in my late teens because I was not a happy little Vegemite, and I wanted to die. So my problems were twofold:
- It's jolly hard just getting through the day with that attitude, and
- I couldn't directly kill myself, because I'm incredibly squeamish.
I found that being slightly tipsy most of the time and very, very drunk the rest of the time solved the proximate issue, while ensuring that I was steadily working toward the larger objective.
However, I quickly found that spending a lot of time sitting in the pub and reading was a very congenial way to pass the time. Moreover, the things I was reading were suggesting that the world was a fascinating and occasionally even pleasant place to live, and that I might want to carry on living in it for some considerable while.
I'm not claiming it was entirely easy to change a well-established lifestyle, but most of the work of moderating my habits was done by removing the fundamental problem. For most of the subsequent years I still drank enough to make many a GP (particularly the younger, less experienced ones) blanche and quail at my estimated daily intake, but for at least a couple of days out of the average week I wouldn't drink at all and didn't miss it.
In fact I have found the habit quite useful. Ordinarily I don't drink enough to provoke even the slightest suggestion of a hangover the following morning, so if I do find myself feeling persistently unwell, I've learned to stop and ask myself what might be going on in my life for which I am self-medicating, and which therefore requires attention. I've not been all that in touch with my emotions in the past (though I am currently working on that), so this has served as a convenient canary in the coal mine.
Of course there are some people, like Tony Benn, who can go their entire lives on nothing but endless cups of tea. Increasingly, I am coming to envy them.
The last few years have been a bit taxing. (Really, Katy? This is the first I've heard of it! Please do elaborate.) There have been quite a few times where I've had no option but to just keep chipping away at the coalface, regardless of personal cost. The canary has had to get by with a few wafts of fresh air from a fan and a firm exhortation to get back up on her perch else she face ugly consequences.
The last few days I've risen with a bit of a sore head, so I thought it best to leave both the coal and the wine alone and devote today to self care, capped off with a Phenergan to send me off to beddy-byes. My body had other ideas, and has told me in no uncertain terms that if it gets no alcohol at all, it will have no choice but to give me a serious case of what the medical profession calls the heebie-jeebies.
We've reached a compromise in which my body will get it's wine a few hours later than it would like, and will give me a full day off tomorrow (or maybe the day after; negotiations are ongoing). I see that by wasting my time on writing this, I've made it through those few hours.
Rather late in the game, I'm beginning to feel that tea may have been the better habit to cultivate. I might get there eventually. I'm rather hoping that after the work I'm doing is completed, my body, my emotions, and I will function as a more cohesive unit. I'm sure the canary would appreciate a long and happy retirement.