**a good number of my blog posts are about me bitching about not blogging**
Time to change that.
I will no longer start each new post whining about how regretful I feel that I haven’t been blogging regularly. I will now just blog. About. Whatever.
Which is sort of how I roll anyways.
Or, I will not blog at all.
Which will pretty much speak for itself.
I should know anytime I put myself out there with some sort of “commitment” of writing something, it’s pretty much a nail in the coffin for whatever bright idea it was I had. 
In this case it was my !new and improved! hard-hitting and edgy! gritty and REAL! recovery blog. My initial idea was to check in on a daily basis for the first year of my recovery and detail every horribly uncomfortable white-knuckle moment with searing truth and RAW, stripped down emotion. 
The only problem is…is that right now, I have no emotion. For the past two weeks I have been as dull and flat as I was when I was an awkward prepubescent. Ok, bad analogy. But flat. Flat is accurate. It’s not even depression, I don’t think. I’m not sad. I just don’t give a shit. About anything.
At least when I was drunk, I felt something…even if it was stupid, and like shit.
I think the term is anhedonia. It would be a pretty name, Anhedonia. But not with my last name. Anhedonia Lee is just stupid. Anyways, it’s sort of like being the walking dead.
It’s the awful kind of grumpy-funk that makes hours of semi-catatonic head-nodding to Foster The People the most thrilling part of of my day. Yes, Foster The People. I know. I should be shot. The Gigamesh mix of that daffy song is pretty festive, I must say. I hope secretly I’m not planning some Virginia Tech kinda freak-out massacre. Nah. I’m just sadly enjoying really really awful music. I am old and way past my peak freshness.
Hi. My name is LeDonna. I am an alcoholic/addict.
There. I said it, publicly. Well I say it in public already, but in social networking terms.
**sigh** It pains me, but it’s time to come out of the closet. No, I’m not gay, at least not today. I am referring to accepting and admitting that I have a monkey on my back. (He’s kinda cute though he’s one of those blue-assed baboons you see at the zoo and on the Discovery Channel)
As if no one really knew, right? Spoiler Alert! LeDonna is a batshit crazy alcoholic and drug fiend. (I know, it’s such a surprise, I was always so together and level-headed) I have been for, sadly, most of my life. From the day I started to produce those crazy hormones, I have been addicted to: Something. I think it started out as food, then sex, then alcohol, then theft, then drugs. Surprisingly never smoking cigarettes, thank God because I can’t even begin to fathom the cost of that beast. Not to mention if I smoked the same way I pursued all my other obsessions, I’d be one of the Marlboro Man’s junkie exes that puffed her way into an early grave. Praise God for asthma. My painfully wimpy lungs actually had my back on that one.
So yeah, back to the drunk part. I recently for the umpteenth time in the past 5 or 6 six years, put my self back into a program of recovery. Why? Well because I’m a drunk **duh!**
I never ever really wanted to label myself as an alcoholic or addict even though over the years I have created countless monstrosities in my life and destroyed just about everything in my world as a result of the consequences of alcohol and drug abuse. And 
pretty much the whole world knew how bad of a trainwreck I was, I was way too ashamed to talk openly about my struggles, partly due to fear of the stigma, and partly because…well, I never really wanted to entirely quit getting fucked up for the whole rest of my life. I simply could not fathom not being able to go back home to Houston and party with all my old friends (who sadly, I suspect many of them suffer from alcoholism as well), not being able to go to shows and clubs and bars and happy hour and airplane travel…and never have a drink again. I fucking love to drink. I love getting high. It’s not all about masking pain, it’s a lot about all the “pleasure” I could only seem to derive from altering my mind. It was the only way I could socialize, have any degree of identity or confidence, the only way I could unlock what I thought was the “real” me. I love euphoria. Euphoria’s great, especially when the other alternative is feeling like complete shit.
I’ve struggled with depression, attention deficits, massive anxiety and what I now can 
recognize as bizarre mood swings, ever since I can remember really. The predominent feelings I had as a child were total and complete fear and worry. At the age of 5, I was already a tiny female Woody Allen struggling to make sense of a world around me that 
was way too overpowering and intimidating. I was scared of my parents, I was scared of food, I was scared of the weather, I was scared of school and all the horrible foul turdmonsters of kids who laughed and teased me relentlessly because I was soft and pudgy and dressed like Shirley Temple from 1936 transplanted to 1976. From the moment I walked into LaPetite Academy I was called fatso and blimp. And that was just the beginning of what seemed like endless days and years of being hit, pushed around, pulled off gym equipment and shoved in a corner to be pinned down while gravel was shoved in my mouth. Why? WTF??? I had no clue, I hadn’t even said anything to anyone. To make things worse, I was quite sickly and a pathetically picky eater, and as a result I was constantly either puking or shitting my pants, which of course e
ndeared me to everyone. Even the staff didn’t seem to like me.
Welcome to my little world and enter ginormous social anxieties and appearance issues that have plagued me my whole entire life. From as early back as I can remember, I always remember feeling uncertain if I was cared for or even liked. I doubted anyone I met would be anything other than…well, pretty much mean. It was so weird, so bizarre. I don’t know why I percieved things the way I did but it set the stage for a pretty much sad lonely childhood and freakishly awkward adolescence. Once I experienced the relief alcohol provided from all my troubles, I thought I had literally died and gone to heaven. I had found my Holy Grail.
So this blog I am now going to use to finally once and for all air out all the shit I should have been journaling for the past 35 years, and document on a daily basis step by step the path of my recovery. I really hope not too many people read it, as it is going to get pretty dark and personal, and I’m not ready for evyone in my life to see just how effed up my life really is. Actually I really do, because I hope my stories might help someone else out there that is suffering. You are not alone, little freaks. You are not alone.
I have nothing better to do. Perhaps its time to drag the ol blog back out. Then I will play with it for about 10 minutes before I get bored…but in the meantime, I thought I may as well utilize it to post random crap and musings about the pathetic waste of time 2010 turned out to be, as well as document my new goals and visions for 2011. This should prove to be at least lightly entertaining, especially as we all know I won’t achieve any of them anyways. But man, was it fun thinking about all the great things I could be.
To celebrate my newfound spurt of quasi-productive energy, I thought I would post for you all a picture of my favorite motivational guru, as it was this person who inspired me to get off my lazy ass and do something with my computer time that did not involve gay porn, online mah-jong, or endless hours of Y&R episodes on hulu. You might think it’s Oprah, Dr. Phil or Dr. Oz, or maybe even Tony Robbins, but it’s not. It’s this handsome guy right here.You know him, and I think you love him too.
As you can see, I was feeling very chipper that day.
2
Lazy Boy
A lazy boy is like a hand full of dung,
the longer you hold on it, the more it
smells; the more it smells, the more
people end up looking at you, as if its
yours.
2296 (2-28-2008)
3
Madness
My madness is under my scalp-;
if I had a wig, I’d have no trouble
getting rid of it….
I thought about laying in the snow
and freezing my madness:
and my wife said that was, “Insane…!”
O, I am empty for any more ideas,
witless, clueless!
Meanwhile, I simply endure, –
and point my finger, middle finger,
every which way.
2295 (2-28-2008)
When I’m Dead
When I’m dead I’ll ask the Lord
if I can come back for a spell,
to make sure my wife, Rosa
is well…and I’m sure
He’ll say yes; and
to let her know,
she can go
on with
life…
I’ll see her later
beyond the tunnel’s light
Sylvia Plath Reads Lady Lazarus
The LeDonna Lounge 