two years ago, right around this time actually, i was arrested for drinking and driving. while my case was going through the courts, to be able to still drive back and forth to work, i had to sign up for a drinking and driving course, which i really was not looking forward to.
it was also during that time that we lost our second baby, before she was even born, at five months.
anyway, the course wasn’t all that bad, the instructor was nice enough, especially considering everything else that was going on. but one day, she made some point, the difference between a social drinker, a problem drinker and a flat out alcoholic.
“so waitaminute,” i interrupted, “because we’re all here, we’re Problem Drinkers?”
and she was beaming, nodding her head, as if some revelation should have dawned upon us.
what a crock of shit.
if i made myself vomit once, does that make me bulimic?
if i thought about suicide and hit the gas, does that make me suicidal?
if i beat someone senseless with my fists, does that make me a murderer?
if i cut myself, does that make me a masochist?
what utter shit. we’re so quick to put people in boxes, to categorize and label and fucking sanitize, keep in a corner, make safe, make fucking impotent and useless. so fucking quick to judge and dismiss, like we’ve got a full case load and no time at all to pay attention to the details.
it’s only the fucking details that matter, that makes us real to one another. without details we’re cardboard cut-outs, the kind you find at the 7-11, and just as trivial and disposable. we’re a fucking disposable society, we can’t wait to throw everything and anything away. god forbid the clutter, god fucking forbid we make a mess of anything. what a joke, what a waste.
no body fucking listens for the details anymore.