Sitting at the goddamn fucking bus stop.
September 28, 1998

Note: These are assorted bits & pieces from a small notebook I used to carry around in my purse ... written during the first couple of weeks after I'd stopped drinking. I was also trying to get over The Doc for the last time. Basically I was a big unpopped zit filled with pain and anger.

This is the second time in as many weeks that the #32 has simply not shown up, and I am filled with a black, impotent rage.

I am tired of things constantly being unexpectedly fudked up. I deserve a little peace, a little order, a little happiness ... and yet every single day there is some new terrible surprise waiting just around the corner for me.

Part of me says   --   sadly, mournfully  --   "I'm afraid I will never be loved like that again." 

Another part of me says "Pray GOD you are never 'loved' like that again!! This man abandoned you, not once, not twice, but three times ... including once when you were pregnant, forcryingoutloud. This doctor, this so-called 'healer,' left you alone and sick  - "

(Journal entry cuts off here)

I want being sober to feel as good as being drunk. Will it, ever?

I want to feel as clever and sexy and dangerous when I'm drinking tea as I did when I was drinking chablis. Will that ever happen?

Today they announced more cutbacks here at The Knife Factory. Everyone will only work a 32 hour week until further notice. This comes the day after (the plant manager) suddenly up and quit ... which came the day after they "downsized" Jill ... which came the week after they fired Rob and laid off Roger and Theresa ... and on and on and on. Amazingly, this sudden announced cutback in hours does not affect yours truly; I emerge, as Dan O. put it, "unscathed." That's because even though the company may be headed directly to the shredder, they still need somebody to answer the phones. Someone to deal with all the angry customers. Someone to help maintain the facade that this is a healthy, profitable place of business ... when in fact it's anything but.

Martha H. just pulled up to the front door again. They laid her off three weeks ago, and she's still finding excuses to come in nearly every day ... to have her knife sharpened, to ask Allison a question about her insurance, to gab with the engineers ... I just want to grab her and shake her and tell her to "Give it up!! He's never coming back this time!! He's gone for good, and the sooner you can accept that fact and quit making yourself look so pathetic, the better!!"

(Oh. Wait a minute.)



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