I've been counting the number of times I get asked the question "are you ok?" whenever I'm in a bar
Today was the 7th instance of it. Do I really look that obviously distressed when I'm drinking?
I guess it doesn't help that I drink when I'm feeling like garbage. I can't help it. I don't know how to conceal my emotional state. I have an immediate family member who is at risk of going to jail.
I have no idea how to handle this other than numbing the sharpness of the emotions.
I'm reminded of Pema Chödrön's observation:
We use all kinds of ways to escape—all addictions stem from this moment when we meet our edge and we just can’t stand it. We feel we have to soften it, pad it with something, and we become addicted to whatever it is that seems to ease the pain.
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Hark Triton, hark! Bellow, bid our father the Sea King rise from the depths full foul in his fury! Black waves teeming with salt foam to smother this young mouth with pungent slime, to choke ye, engorging your organs til' ye turn blue and bloated with bilge and brine and can scream no more - only when he, crowned in cockle shells with slitherin' tentacle tail and steaming beard take up his fell be-finned arm, his coral-tine trident screeches banshee-like in the tempest and plunges right through yer gullet, bursting ye - a bulging bladder no more, but a blasted bloody film now and nothing for the harpies and the souls of dead sailors to peck and claw and feed upon only to be lapped up and swallowed by the infinite waters of the Dread Emperor himself - forgotten to any man, to any time, forgotten to any god or devil, forgotten even to the sea, for any stuff for part of Winslow, even any scantling of your soul is Winslow no more, but is now itself the sea!