Dillon Fergus O'Leary (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
farewelltodublin) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
muserevival2014-01-26 08:20 pm
farewelltodublin) wrote in muserevival2014-01-26 08:20 pm
Entry tags:
Word of the Day 037.
Bewilder
v. 1. to confuse or puzzle completely; perplex.
I don't think group therapy is for me. I don't know what it is about it, but I don't get it. But at this place, it's compulsory, so I don't have a spare get out of jail free card to skip it. I thought I would like it, because I'm a people person. I like people. They interest me, and I like a good wee chat. No one is here for the social interaction, though. It's been really, really overwhelming to find myself surrounded by other people just like me. People who have become fucks ups because of booze. People who ruined their lives because of booze. People who lost everything important to them because of booze. People who now have medical conditions for the rest of their lives because of booze. Even people who have taken lives because of booze.
If I had to take one thing away from my first group therapy sessions, it was that I was glad I was never so drunk I killed someone. I came close, though. Not just my own life, but when I was dickhead enough to get behind the wheel of a car when I was so trashed at a party, I probably couldn't see straight. The session really made me think about myself, but it was confusing n general. A whole group of people sitting there, not particularly wanting to talk about their fucks up because, let's be real, by the time you get to this point, you're already feeling like an epic fucked up loser. You don't want to have to get up and stand there with with your fingers in the shape of an L at your forehead giving dot points of all the reasons you're a loser.
Despite all that, I did give it a go. I figured this shit exists for a reason. So, I got up and introduced myself... and they didn't understand a fucking word I said. I had to repeat myself four times before they even got my name. I was fucking done. I'm not going to sit there in a therapy session where it's supposed to be productive to talk about your shit with the blank stares coming back to me because my accent is so strong, they have no fucking clue what I'm saying. It's not their fault, I know that. It's not their fault I was born in Ireland and have been there since I was a foetus. Aye, I talk funny. I get it. But this is hard for me too without having that whole language barrier bullshit to go with.
I walked out of the session. Some counsellor chick found me and we went for a walk in the clinic grounds where she told me I could talk about what I wanted if I felt like it. It was probably just as much a shock for her as it was for me when I broke down and started bawling like a bairn. I miss home. I miss my family. It's so lonely here and the feeling that no one understands you makes me feel more and more like I'm drowning. I want a drink every fucking second of every fucking day. My stomach is in constant knots and I have a headache that won't quit. I can't imagine how Noah was feeling with everything going on with him. Sick as a dog, I know.
I miss him too. Like, really miss him. We haven't known each other very long, but even in that short time, I really respect the poor guy for the ordeals he has been through. I can't imagine my family turning me out and leaving me with nothing. I can't imagine being addicted to something hard like ice and still trying to exist in a world where your brain is shoving you into an alternate horror reality, and no matter how much it is eating at you, you still can't stop. He's smart and he's gorgeous, he's just so beaten down by the hand that life dealt him. No one until Euan wanted to help him, and if Euan hadn't been there, Noah would be dead and I would never have met him.
I'm lying here in the little room at the rehab clinic with views of the gardens thinking about that. It was Noah and Beau who really cockblocked my negative thoughts and showed me reasons why I, aye, I have a bad drinking problem, but I'm lucky. I have people who care about me. I'm not dying of cancer. I'm still in control of my functions and faculties. I have avenues to better myself if I kick this. I'm not a lost cause.
But I'm homesick and I'm not feeling very positive about all this therapy stuff right now. It's making me feel worse about myself than I already do, and not better. Tomorrow, I have yoga and a group walk. The day after that, rock climbing and long meditation. Then, if I get through those days, I have my first family therapy session where Keiran is going to come up and have a session with me and my counsellor. I'm not giving up. I'm not a quitter. Just right now, I'm trying to work out how to do all this. If Noah is back there going through coming to terms with being Positive and staying off hard shit, and Beau's back there going through chemo, I can fucking do this without being a mopey, miserable wuss. I'm trying to kick booze, not save the world. I have to have the balls.
I WILL have the balls.
+ Dillon O'Leary // Original Character
v. 1. to confuse or puzzle completely; perplex.
I don't think group therapy is for me. I don't know what it is about it, but I don't get it. But at this place, it's compulsory, so I don't have a spare get out of jail free card to skip it. I thought I would like it, because I'm a people person. I like people. They interest me, and I like a good wee chat. No one is here for the social interaction, though. It's been really, really overwhelming to find myself surrounded by other people just like me. People who have become fucks ups because of booze. People who ruined their lives because of booze. People who lost everything important to them because of booze. People who now have medical conditions for the rest of their lives because of booze. Even people who have taken lives because of booze.
If I had to take one thing away from my first group therapy sessions, it was that I was glad I was never so drunk I killed someone. I came close, though. Not just my own life, but when I was dickhead enough to get behind the wheel of a car when I was so trashed at a party, I probably couldn't see straight. The session really made me think about myself, but it was confusing n general. A whole group of people sitting there, not particularly wanting to talk about their fucks up because, let's be real, by the time you get to this point, you're already feeling like an epic fucked up loser. You don't want to have to get up and stand there with with your fingers in the shape of an L at your forehead giving dot points of all the reasons you're a loser.
Despite all that, I did give it a go. I figured this shit exists for a reason. So, I got up and introduced myself... and they didn't understand a fucking word I said. I had to repeat myself four times before they even got my name. I was fucking done. I'm not going to sit there in a therapy session where it's supposed to be productive to talk about your shit with the blank stares coming back to me because my accent is so strong, they have no fucking clue what I'm saying. It's not their fault, I know that. It's not their fault I was born in Ireland and have been there since I was a foetus. Aye, I talk funny. I get it. But this is hard for me too without having that whole language barrier bullshit to go with.
I walked out of the session. Some counsellor chick found me and we went for a walk in the clinic grounds where she told me I could talk about what I wanted if I felt like it. It was probably just as much a shock for her as it was for me when I broke down and started bawling like a bairn. I miss home. I miss my family. It's so lonely here and the feeling that no one understands you makes me feel more and more like I'm drowning. I want a drink every fucking second of every fucking day. My stomach is in constant knots and I have a headache that won't quit. I can't imagine how Noah was feeling with everything going on with him. Sick as a dog, I know.
I miss him too. Like, really miss him. We haven't known each other very long, but even in that short time, I really respect the poor guy for the ordeals he has been through. I can't imagine my family turning me out and leaving me with nothing. I can't imagine being addicted to something hard like ice and still trying to exist in a world where your brain is shoving you into an alternate horror reality, and no matter how much it is eating at you, you still can't stop. He's smart and he's gorgeous, he's just so beaten down by the hand that life dealt him. No one until Euan wanted to help him, and if Euan hadn't been there, Noah would be dead and I would never have met him.
I'm lying here in the little room at the rehab clinic with views of the gardens thinking about that. It was Noah and Beau who really cockblocked my negative thoughts and showed me reasons why I, aye, I have a bad drinking problem, but I'm lucky. I have people who care about me. I'm not dying of cancer. I'm still in control of my functions and faculties. I have avenues to better myself if I kick this. I'm not a lost cause.
But I'm homesick and I'm not feeling very positive about all this therapy stuff right now. It's making me feel worse about myself than I already do, and not better. Tomorrow, I have yoga and a group walk. The day after that, rock climbing and long meditation. Then, if I get through those days, I have my first family therapy session where Keiran is going to come up and have a session with me and my counsellor. I'm not giving up. I'm not a quitter. Just right now, I'm trying to work out how to do all this. If Noah is back there going through coming to terms with being Positive and staying off hard shit, and Beau's back there going through chemo, I can fucking do this without being a mopey, miserable wuss. I'm trying to kick booze, not save the world. I have to have the balls.
I WILL have the balls.
+ Dillon O'Leary // Original Character