The Deep Dark Woods

My cute little internet handle for myself has come true: I'm literally black and blue this morning, along with a healthy dose of scratches and blisters. I look like I lost a fight, and I feel like I got run over by a fully loaded freight train. Needless to say, last night was not a good one.

It began innocently enough. Kevin and I went to the wedding of one of his close friends about half an hour away. I was a little grumpy because I'd been losing money at poker, but nothing was terribly wrong. When we reached the inn where it was being held, they were without power due to the rainstorm and didn't have a backup generator, so the wedding was held in the dark. An hour into the reception, the lights came back on and everyone cheered, and things continued as they were originally intended.

I deliberately hadn't eaten during the afternoon because I knew the reception included dinner, so by the time the ceremony was over I was starving. The food, of course, didn't show up for another hour and a half. But there was an open bar. Kevin and I looked at each other and said, "Free booze? Let's get drunk!"

That's all well and fine for him, who can hold his booze like nobody else I know. It takes most of a bottle of vodka to get him drunk, so even with the open bar he remained sober. I didn't. I barely remember the food arriving. The night melted into a blur of toasts, dancing, talking, and food. The next thing I know I was in the car trying to drive away, with Kevin standing in front of me yelling at me to turn the car off.

I started crying, and then I heard somebody say that they'd called the police. I parked the car while the groom's brother tried to talk to me, but I just promised him I wasn't going to drive and stuck the keys in my purse. Next thing I remember I found myself crashing through the woods up behind the inn. It was raining and it was dark and I didn't know the area, and on top of that I was drunk out of my mind and wearing heels. I must have fallen down every ten steps; I couldn't stay upright, but I kept going.

I couldn't seen anyone following me. For some reason that I still can't imagine, I called Wren, and I still wish I hadn't. She didn't need the worry of me slurring over the phone, "I'm in the woods! I'm running away! I don't want them to get me! Yes, I can see the lights. No, I'm not going back."

I made it to the top of the mountain, turned left, and started down again, knowing that would bring me to the road. I remember more falling than walking, but I couldn't feel any pain, and I pulled myself upright again and again and continued down the hill. Eventually I reached a logging road, and I followed that to the paved road. Now able to stay upright, I walked with a purpose towards what I thought was north. Unfortunately, it turned out later that I was actually going south toward the city, and not north toward home.

Plenty of cars went by, and I stuck out my thumb, but none of them stopped for me. I don't know how long I walked before I was surrounded by flashing blue lights. Even drunk, I'm not stupid enough to run from the police. I cooperated while the officer put me in the back of his car and drove me back to the inn, where Kevin and his friends were waiting for me.

Kevin drove me back home and made me go to bed, refusing to let me shower first. Still unsure of what was going on, I burst into tears again and sobbed while he got ready for bed himself. I could tell he was angry at me, and that just made me more upset, since I didn't even know what had happened.

We were awake until five talking about what happened and other stuff. I told him that I had cut myself again; he knows I've done it before, although I've never showed anyone before last night. His comment was, "While the art is beautiful, you shouldn't have to do that to feel better." I finally agreed to talk to a counselor, something I've been resisting for a while. I need to keep it from appearing on my insurance, because if my mom finds out, she'll throw a fit.

Mom's a little crazy in a few respects, and is convinced that all doctors but hers are quacks. She also can't stand the thought of her little girl having any problems. When I was diagnosed with asthma as a teenager, it was no surprise to me; I'd known for years. But it was practically the end of her world, realizing that I wasn't perfect. I've tried to tell her several times over the last year that I have OCD, and every time the response runs something like, "Don't say things like that! Don't think that way!" I'm pretty sure if I got professionally diagnosed, she would just go on a rant about how these things are over-diagnosed in this country and all these stupid diseases the doctors are making up are all bullshit.

In the mean time, I'm still shaking from exhaustion, and I think there's a steaming pile of something where my brain should be. Time for some tea and a quiet day. Except I still need to go have a fight with my bank about the thirty-five-dollar charge they whacked me for overdrawing by ten cents.