I just left my partner of 3 years, I didn't really have friends so much as prospective mates at the time. My new best friend who I was obsessed with is the only person that didn't want to fuck me, and She said that it's because any time anything romantic / sexual happened between us during our "situationship" I would have this look in my eyes, and She knew I couldn't consent. My other friend at the time rather conspicuously used my inability to say no to engage in his feeder fetish while maintaining plausible deniability. After he definitely-didn't-jerk-off to spoon feeding me fruity pebbles with a bit of the old in out with the spoon in his hand, shuddering and telling me "I'll make someone very happy one day," he called me the next day to say that "there's nothing between us. There was a time when I considered it, but that time has passed". I decided I needed to meet new people, so I went to a show. I met a cute girl, she liked my jacket, and was trans too, and took me back to her girlfriend's place later in the evening. This did not set off alarm bells, but it became clear they both wanted to fuck me. Well, why not I guessed, if that will get me friends. It didn't super pan out though.
I had a roommmate at the time. She was nice and caring, and very helpful with everything. I accidentally drank too much one night (only two bottles of 12% mead) and she took care of me. More than that, she spoke with me. Small pleasantries, the goings on and basic communcation, but still things I wanted. You could say she was the only friend I had, if we were even that close that did not want to fuck me besides Her. She would go home over winter break. Everyone would go home over winter break. I was scared because I had not been so alone since I met Monika. I told everyone I was scared I would not survive this isolation. I told them "I will not survive The Winter." Nobody really did anything but I ended up with a game recommendation and that felt good.
by basically the only person I believed cared about me at all, and it wasn't going well. To cope with the stress of the survival horror game and my own existential loneliness, I started drinking. It started with a couple drinks now and then. It started becoming all day I was buzzed. It started becoming all day I was drunk. It started to become "Gin for Dinner" or "Ginner" as I lovingly called my orange juice and Bombay Sapphire. Being mentally ill, this did not help me, particularly because I was bipolar. I didn't really mind it until I was told one night that I was "being annoying." If it had been the feeder man, I would have been fine, I would have lived, but it was Her, my best friend, my soft-ex, the-not-rapist, the other of the two angels. I was impaled through the heart. Annoying, to Her? I made a crashout Facebook post, poured out all my alcohol, and went through withdrawals, including, probably because of my bipolar, psychosis.
By they I mean the people from school, the feeder fetishist and the Her. I was given a long list of things that were wrong with me by him, things I wouldn't have given a second thought to without Her tacit endorsement. Additionally, I had scared an aquaintence away with my behavior and been exiled from the friend group in total. He wasn't going to see me either, and effectively the only person from the group who would talk to me was Her. Lastly, there was an aquiantence, who friended me on Facebook, saw the drunken withdrawal crashout post above, and had been dramatically reading to people in a crowd because he thought it was funny. They took care of this issue, which I didn't know existed until they also offered a solution, and it was kind of terrifying but the exile weighed on me much more. My return was condtional on going to therapy, conquering avoidant attachment style, and having an alcoholic sponsor from AA. I didn't need AA though, I got off the alcohol with the power of love, already signed up for therapy, and got signed on with a new medication. The avoidant attachment style I don't even think really applied at the time either anymore.
I lost the fight. One line in particular got to me "Oh really, you're going to get sober and finish that novel you keep talking about? That's great, I love hearing that! ALL 35 TIMES YOU'VE TOLD ME." I keep saying that and I hate it, but I really did cure my alcoholism. Something else stood out to me about it. They say you can't cure alcoholism with love right? That's the whole point of The Lost Weekend, a roughly autobiographical book by Jackson, but I did. Maybe I'm just "Stronger than Jackson," as I'm fond of thinking, I'm just better than him. Well, I was going to drink a bunch and not drink anymore to prove that I was, as I wanted to believe, Stronger than Jackson. I drank about a third of a bottle of Kirsch, and set out to sing loudly and poorly at the swing set. I drank a little more, just to make sure I was really tempted, and then it was empty. I drank 700ml of 90 proof liqour in one night and I would not remember the rest of this.
I've always loved pretending to be a detective. Sleuthing around, figuring things out. I carry a pen and top hinged notepad in my shirt pocket because it feels detectiveish. I love trench coats. The problem with the mystery when you're blackout drunk is that you're (hopefully the only) victim and also the perpetrator. Victim wears a uniform, she always wears brown pants and a button up short sleeve shirt. Shoes are not at the door, pants are not by the bed. A brief search finds them both in the bathroom. They're wet. Smell test confirms, urine, likely the perpetrator's. Victim's car keys are NOT in the pockets, which means they were touched by the perp. We'll have to search for the vehicle and hope it's where we left it. Luckily it is. This is unbecoming of a Monika, as my name was at the time. Monika should know why Her pants are wet. Monika should never lose control like that. Monika would never wake up to find that She apparently drunk texted Her ex-situationship, as I always do when I am drunk, usually about my undying love for Her.
You wake up from an alcoholic binge as a detective, and start out by doing a little search for your pants and shoes. The pants are soaked with piss. You can't remember anything. There's something about a car that scares you. Your friend group has exiled you for being a little too psychotic. They have an intervention at some point which determines whether or not there's a future for you. You don't even know your name anymore. Legally, he is Harrier Du Bois. I am literally him. You can wake up, try to come up with a cool name, and fail, giving you the incredible name "Raphael Ambrosious Costeau." Feeling like a sad sack failure just like Harry, I thought maybe I should change my name as well, so...
to Gloria (Ambrosius Costeau). I came out to all my partners, which I got over winter break and now have developed into relationships I can count on. They didn't seem to care. Gloria of course coming from my name before The Cinnamon Incident. It felt good, it felt like healing, and of course my best friend liked it quite a bit, since She thought that naming myself after Doki Doki was mentally ill. I finished Disco Elysium and its passion for redemption really spoke to me. I had this belief that I could reinvent myself, that I could succeed, that I wouldn't just be a stupid drunk that'd never succeed, and I'd finally get something going for me.
I brough absinthe over to a friends house to celebrate my newfound name and everything while watching the Minecraft Movie. At the request of a friend, I played a little drinking game, having a little sip everytime that the joke in the movie was just the name of an item. As you can imagine, I got shitfaced, the last thing I remember being Jack Black shouting "Chicken Jockey" and immediately finishing my cup of absinthe. Fast forward and I'm vomiting in a toilet. Unable to conceive of anything other than "I am literally Harry Du Bois," unable to think an original thought, I screamed at the top of my lungs "I DON'T WANT TO BE THIS TYPE OF ANIMAL ANYMORE." Between bouts of retching I begged for my phone to text my partners I loved them, and of course, to confess my undying love to a certain someone.
It was my penance. I first put on the costume and saw myself as I really am. Unreality. Nausea. Dissociation. Derealization. Depersonalization. I wasn't in my body and it didn't exist. Every defense mechanism fired at once to prevent me from seeing my ghastly image in the mirror. A woman looking at me, in my bedroom? I can do whatever I want to her, and so with lecherous eyes I spied at my own body, both victim and perpetrator, "sober" this time. I reached out to touch her hoping it would prove she was not me, but she was, I was. 5 things I can see. 4 things I can touch, 3 things I can hear, 2 things I can smell, and 1 thing I can taste. I got a snack and hopped on voice, unable to be alone. I was literally Harry Du Bois. There's nothing I could do but change, so I wore the clothes until the feeling sunk in. I wore them for a week. People liked them, I got a lot of compliments! I got compliments, the real me, the most disgusting version of myself imaginable. Not Monika, the image of me I wish to be, but me, Gloria Ambrosious Costeau, the real me. I had a real sense of self confidence after that. It gave me closure on this arc.
I wasn't drinking to get drunk, just a little buzz socially. I was drinking in moderation. I was cutting myself off. I had done it, I cured my alcoholism and I did it for Her, to stop confessing my undying love for Her. I proved I was Stronger than Jackson.