h/e 153 march

So the box came out of the closet (the box isn't gay, it's just... a box full of photos... in the closet) and the kitty immediately jumped on top of it as if to say "don't open it, you stupid bastard!" but the kitty just loves boxes. Who can blame him? I went back to the ol' souvenir box looking for a before picture of our backyard and porch so that I could better compare it to the view of the brick wall we have today (actually, it ressembles this shot but this one was taken during the invasion so you can't see the beautiful yard/garden we had access to but it does show the view from the kitchen window... which, again, is now blocked by bricks). The box contains most of my developped photos since late 1995 so it's chock-full of moments and people I'd rather not think about. I gave up on the search about a quarter way through -- fuck it, the kitty was right. It sucks 'cause it is also full of moments and people I do want to remember but the negative outweighs it. That's how I roll. There isn't anything to "cure" here, it would require a needless effort to correct it when it could simply be thrown back into the closet. It isn't a burden. Keep that energy for the problems at hand, I say. The box ends somewhere in 2004 (they are now in digital form, of course), the numbers were perfect but it was an awful year; I went from considering an engagement proposal to having the most difficult drinking period of my life. I'd consider those two to be very distant extremes, wouldn't you? It's kind of a good thing that I wasn't blogging back then I guess... I have a hard time recognizing myself within emotional highs (a psych analysis would compare this to my sentiments towards gray days). So a trip in the box is similar to a trip back in the past and I'd rather not live there. Onward to new mistakes (sorry for the pessimism). I did however have a hard time with the drink sometime last year, I know that I don't have a "problem" per say but I'm aware the fine line exists (there is more on h/e about "drinking and hypocrisy" right here). It remains a personal victory to be able to have a non-problematic drink with friends and also being able to honestly enjoy it. But I tell ya, when in times of panic, distress and the occasional insomnia; that fucking liquor will make the problems disapear (though temporarily) and it'll knock you back to slumberland likity split if necessary. F-you, it works. It does! It's bad, it has concequences but on that oh so problematic moment -- it does the job. It's very difficult to ignore this FACT. And I underestimated its powerful effects last year when I drunkenly awoke and was paralyzed by tremendous pains as if some kind of steel bar had punctured my chest. I passed back out to sleep thinking I was dying and that I wasn't strong enough to alert anyone to my pains. Yo, It's a gamble. I don't recommend it, but I'm not gonna lie about it either. Now the box has to go back to the top of the garde-robe where, ironically, it was once a hidden spot to stash alcohol bottles. Judging by the times et al, I'm fairly certain that I'll be able to re-visit the box sometime in 2009 where most of its ghosts will no longer have any effect on me whatsoever as it is already surprisingly fading (aside for the frames of those we lost along the years, time hardly heals these -- nor would I want to forget).