5 a.m. Confessions

For the record... this post was written between five and seven a.m. this morning. I was HAMMERED on tequila zingers (silver tequila, plum ginger cordial, lemonade) and the dam broke in a very good way.

Greetings, my cherished blurkers.
In this dark hour before dawn, I shall make my confessions.

Confession the first: I am HAMMERED.
Confession the second: I am happy to be so.
Confession the third: Godsdammit, but I sod-all needed the drink.

As the child of a drunk and coming from a family full of ‘em, it scares the piss out of me to pair the words “need” and “drink.” Because that is a baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad thing. It’s OK to WANT; NOT OK to need.

But tonight, I needed.
Been getting caught up on the Jim ‘n Eddie podcast. Got one last episode to listen to, but in #12, they got Jason PHUCKED up. And it was cool. It was the way getting drunk should be—just good friends being stoooooopid and having a fuckin’ laugh.

That’s the real reason for alcohol—just to relax a bit. Let the fences and walls down Just to be human without all the defenses for a little while.
It’s a friggin’ pity most of us can’t accept that and be there. All the excuses—“well, I was drunk…” So?

Maybe that’s it—I think I’ve identified my problem. I am who I am no matter what state I’m in. If I say something drunk, it’s the same as if I’m sober. No bullshit, no lies. No prevarication. Even less of an editor.

I’m good with it.

Confession the fourth: I’m dealing with a severe case of love. Yet again, I have fallen in love with a friend. I swear, I am the biggest fucking idiot on this planet. And it’s someone that I can’t have, for so many reasons. Too many reasons. Heinlein defined love—real love—the best: love is when what is best for the other person is more important to you than your own desire.
It sucks.
I hate it.
I want to be a selfish cunt and put myself forward.
But I won’t.
And for once, it’s not cowardice. For once, I’m not being noble. Stupidly noble. For once, I’m doing what is right.
Still sucks.

Confession the fifth: I need help. (What else is new?) See, I’ve put my ass on the line, doing this blog. I have a rule for myself: what goes on the blog, stays on the blog. No editing (even the odd typo—and you don’t KNOW how crazy typos make me; blame Sister Jane Michael, but I cannot abide mistakes in my own work. It makes me cringe, makes me feel a failure, a Bad Person. Fucking Catholic school. A blessing and a curse); what gets written, stays written, as is, and I have to accept it and embrace it, even when it hurts.
I’m good with that. It keeps me honest. Makes me stick to it. Doesn’t let me wimp out.
I’m not giving up this time. I am not crawling back into a life of obscurity that I have condemned myself to out of duty and cowardice.
Yeah, I said it—Cowardice. I let “duty” and “responsibility” override my duty and responsibility to myself. In my attempt to prove to my family that I am NOT selfish, worthless, horrible person, I gave up my dream to be America’s answer to Ken Branagh. This is a meaningless statement in 2011; back in 1995, it was a declaration of war, a statement of intent—a throw down to become the Shakespearean director of my generation, a general in the war against the Stratfordian Orthodoxy. Fuck, I miss Shakespeare. I miss my Lord of Oxenford and his blessed words, the words that woke me from the sleep of the Briar Rose to the world of the theatre. I fear it may be too late to reclaim my dreams, to throw my hat back in the ring and take my place.
But I am sure as FUCK going to try. If I fail… then being me, being the starry eyed Quixotic figure of ridiculousness that I am, I will try again. I will find my own version of Dulcinea and tilt at the windmills that may really be giants…
Shit, I’m talkin’ ragtime. I’m let the tequila control the fingers.
No, I’m not. I’m letting the tequila take down the barriers, remove the breakwaters, the harsh reins I’ve put on myself to keep the frustration in check. I want the stage back. I’m taking it back. I’m going back to open mike. I’m not going to let my own fears hold me back.
Because I am that good. I am. I am. I know it. I’ve coached so many, I’ve seen talent, I know talent. I know I have it. I know I have The Shine. I can do it.
I just have to hold on to that feeling and not let Duty take it away.
Help me, beloved blurkers, keep that faith. Send me good energy, think me good wishes. I am going forward. I have to. I am going to beat the odds, I am going to be the success story I should have let myself be years ago.
I know that the therapy words would be, “Maybe you weren’t ready for it.”
Bullshit. I needed it then; now, I’m trying to prevent my life from being wasted. I don’t want to be a “might have been”—“she had so much talent, such a shame she didn’t…” Bullshit. I promised myself the world.

“Life’s like a movie, write your own ending…” And I’m not dead yet.

Tonight, I’m seeing Celebricrush. Can’t wait. I doubt he’ll remember me; I doubt there’ll be anything more than a happy handshake and an autograph and a damn good show. And that’s OK. It took me so long to realize that I have to be my own hope. Last night, I had some kindness—a little bit of Happy Exercise (yes, another Heinlein reference) with a man I hadn’t thought I’d see again. I hope to see him another time. We shall see. It’s not what I want—I want to be in a relationship. But then… I don’t know where life is going to take me in the next six months.
I know I’m lonely. I know I want a circle of friends again. The problem is that I’m back to where I was in my 20’s—single, starting over, and enjoying life. Most of my friends are in a very different place—committed, established and dealing with very different issues. I’m free, almost. Almost. Six months, I can slip the surly bonds of responsibility… I can have my life back again.
Confession the fifth: That scares the fuck out of me. It does. It means I have no excuses any more. It means I have to take the leap of faith. I have to believe in the only person I’ve ever trusted or ever really feared—ME.

I wish this was a wise piece; I wish this was a funny piece. It’s not. It’s just me, naked and vulnerable. It’s just me. I have to be up in a few hours and go to the gym; I have to do my workout and keep the momentum going. I have to build my strength, slim my body more. The gentleman observed that I had lost weight—it was the best thing he could have said. I have felt ugly and fat; to have someone who hadn’t seen me in six months, someone who had seen me naked on a beach, approve and want me… I needed that validation. I need to be wanted and desired. I cannot embrace the one I love—and I see the trap I laid for myself, falling for my dark angel who is not within my grasp—and this other gentleman is a person of worth and intelligence and kindness.
Somedays, I find hope a hard thing to have. But right now, all I can feel is the bubble of potential… the feeling that Something Is Coming. I hope so. Dear Gods, I hope so. Hope has come so hard to hold on to, and I have come to despise my little life, this little life I condemned myself to in the name of duty, from the desire to prove myself worthy of love to a parent.
Confession the sixth: I should not be drinking. But I do not regret it. I try too hard to control, and sometimes, I need to let go. So I will thank Jim, Eddie, Jason and Lindsay for letting me be a silent witness to their silliness and fuckery. It was therapeutic.
Confession the seventh: I have just emptied the last of the New Year’s Eve Espolon tequila into my glass and added some homemade plum ginger cordial and agave lemonade Lifewater. The sky is lightening through the dining room window. I am not going to send the text message I want to send. I can’t; it would be self-destructive and selfish. And I could not bear to lose a friend.
KJ, I forgive you. I love you, my friend, and I forgive you, as I always have, and as you always have forgiven me. That’s what it means to be best friends—the love, the bond, the everything, is so much more important than trespasses. And unlike Annie, you were always true. There was never a siphoning, an agenda. We were, are, and always will be the Pros from Dover. We are, and always be, sisters. Like all family, sometimes, we hurt each other. But like family, the love, the bond is more important. I miss you like a fibre from my heart. Something… something went awry. I can feel it… like a wrong note. Like directing a rehearsal and hearing a false line… like a note off key. I am trying to find the thread, unravel the mistake, reweave reality and make it right.
I hate being a shaman. Because there is a place that the shamanic soul goes to… this is where the right chemical takes me. It’s dangerous. It’s scary. Because it’s a place of truth. This is where the New Age airy fairy bullshit meets reality—I wish this wasn’t real. I wish I could turn my back on what I’m experiencing. But I can’t. There is a higher truth, another level from coarse reality. Call it God, call it faith, call it aliens, call it whatfuckingever… it’s real.
The sun is up. I am somewhere in the aether. It’s OK. I need this, right now. I need to let go.
So… I am going to speak to the cards and then I am going to sleep. Let this move through me, this Golden Moment of Clarity…

Blessings, my darlings. Thank you for indulging me. Whisper a word in the ear of your favorite deity that I can hold on to this moment, this feeling, this clarity.
Much love… so much, my heart aches…
Your Empress