Kintsugi
Sponsor
Those of you who know me are probably thinking that if I got arrested, I was being self-destructive. Plenty of you have watched me flirt with alcoholism and invest earnestly in other addictions carrying far worse legal implications.
But no. As is the trend in my life, I tend to get caught doing the most benign permutation of an act I habitually engage in to a far greater extreme. So I had a couple beers after work on an empty stomach, was pulled over for speeding while getting tacos on my way home, and just before the officer was about to tell me to watch my speed, he smelled beer on my breath, and we both seemed surprised when I blew hot.
.08, folks. Right on the line.
And then the handcuffs. And then the Total f*cking Meltdown. The officer saying they won’t let me go home if I “keep acting crazy.” Hyperventilating. The handcuffs were so tight my wrists were bruised for days.
Rationally, I was okay. This was a statistical inevitability. I anticipated getting arrested eventually. I thought it would be far, far worse. I’d narrowly escaped going to Actual Prison when I was not quite 19, and ever since, I’ve been waiting for another shitfest without the bizarre twist of luck that made those officers just let it slide. So I got got for something mundane. I may not even see charges. It took four officers looking before they realized I really did have a clean record; I’ve had one speeding ticket since I was 19. I’m pristine. Or I was.
But it’s been a little over two weeks, and it feels like my symptoms are only mounting. I can’t get out of bed some days. Sunday I slept almost 20 hours. I wake up and cry myself back to oblivion half the time. I have nightmares that are so vivid I can feel pain.
All that’s to say, I haven’t been like this in a long time. The funny thing about always being suicidally depressed and feeling constant, crippling fear accompany everyday consciousness is that you get really good at it. It’s like being a functional alcoholic. It’s not debilitating when it’s your stasis.
So anyway, maybe the worst consequence I’ll actually face is the barrage of my own symptoms, and that f*cking blows.
And yes, my friends, I feel sufficiently scared straight, as loathe as I am to admit that. Two beers over three hours was not worth this fresh hell. But it IS kind of funny that I got caught the one time my drinking wasn’t some maladaptive coping mechanism. I worked a long day. I went out with a colleague. I picked up some tacos and a DWI. Then I went to work... because it was a Tuesday. How droll.
But no. As is the trend in my life, I tend to get caught doing the most benign permutation of an act I habitually engage in to a far greater extreme. So I had a couple beers after work on an empty stomach, was pulled over for speeding while getting tacos on my way home, and just before the officer was about to tell me to watch my speed, he smelled beer on my breath, and we both seemed surprised when I blew hot.
.08, folks. Right on the line.
And then the handcuffs. And then the Total f*cking Meltdown. The officer saying they won’t let me go home if I “keep acting crazy.” Hyperventilating. The handcuffs were so tight my wrists were bruised for days.
Rationally, I was okay. This was a statistical inevitability. I anticipated getting arrested eventually. I thought it would be far, far worse. I’d narrowly escaped going to Actual Prison when I was not quite 19, and ever since, I’ve been waiting for another shitfest without the bizarre twist of luck that made those officers just let it slide. So I got got for something mundane. I may not even see charges. It took four officers looking before they realized I really did have a clean record; I’ve had one speeding ticket since I was 19. I’m pristine. Or I was.
But it’s been a little over two weeks, and it feels like my symptoms are only mounting. I can’t get out of bed some days. Sunday I slept almost 20 hours. I wake up and cry myself back to oblivion half the time. I have nightmares that are so vivid I can feel pain.
All that’s to say, I haven’t been like this in a long time. The funny thing about always being suicidally depressed and feeling constant, crippling fear accompany everyday consciousness is that you get really good at it. It’s like being a functional alcoholic. It’s not debilitating when it’s your stasis.
So anyway, maybe the worst consequence I’ll actually face is the barrage of my own symptoms, and that f*cking blows.
And yes, my friends, I feel sufficiently scared straight, as loathe as I am to admit that. Two beers over three hours was not worth this fresh hell. But it IS kind of funny that I got caught the one time my drinking wasn’t some maladaptive coping mechanism. I worked a long day. I went out with a colleague. I picked up some tacos and a DWI. Then I went to work... because it was a Tuesday. How droll.