Misusing the alphabet

I find writing "under the influence" to be a fascinating experience.  It's just about the only time when I can actually write without censoring myself and let everything land on paper.  The rest of the time I don't fight the impulse to self-edit and while what comes out in the end might be a fine piece, it's been chewed up so many times that it no longer bears resemblance to what I started writing.

I can write when buzzed, but the best uncensored writing comes when I'm straddling that fine line between very, very mellow and unfit to walk.  That's where I was last night with the help of two bottles of apple cider.  Since the letters on the page I was reading were blurring, I pulled out my journal and wrote the following...

-----------------------------------

And so the story begins.
Because everything has to start somewhere even if you
Can't yet figure out where it will lead you.
Does it really matter whose fault it was?
Everyone saw the end result even if they couldn't
Figure out why the gun went off when pointed at
Georgiana's bountiful chest.
Heresy, you might say, how could you not know?
I tell you, I didn't.
Just as surprised as you, I was.
Killing isn't as common as you would think.
Lately I've been feeling jaded, I guess
Martin proved me wrong.
Never would I have expected him to be the one.
One to pull out the gun, one to have the guts to
Pull the trigger.
Quaking in his shoes would be more his style.
Really not the one to surprise anyone usually.
Saturday night he was quiet, pensive, sober almost.
Thought he was drunk, then sober, then high.
Unfortunately for Georgiana, he wasn't any of those.
Very unhappily enlightened is what he was.
We all thought he didn't know or didn't care.
"X marks the spot" is all he said before Georgiana's
Yelp pierced the mellow buzz of the bar.
Zero warning.

I never thought of myself as particularly helpless or weak-willed.  In fact, most people who know me will describe me as determined, sometimes almost to the point of single-mindedness.  Control freak has been used as a description more than once.  I like to be in control - of myself, of the situation, even of others on occasion.

I've never tried illicit drugs not out of some sort of a moral conviction, but out of sheer fear of losing control and being unable to regain it at will.

Willingly giving up control is different. I can and have done that, but finding myself without the ability to regain control is something I don't like to think about.  And so it's all the more galling that I can't seem to gain control over a habit I have.

I hate it.  I hate the sense that something is stronger than my determination.  There's no medication that can help, no X-step program, there's nothing except me and my utter inability to exercise the self-control necessary to stop doing it.

Why don't I just stop?  It's not because I can't.  I'm at least honest enough to admit that.  I don't stop because I don't have to.  I've overcome and conquered challenges before because I had to.  Because it wasn't a choice, it was a matter of survival at least on some level.  In this case, I should do it, I should kick the habit, but I don't have to.

And so I choose not to.