Tag Archives: blackout

How to put this so that it doesn’t sound as bad as it is? I drank.

20 Mar

12:50 am

There, I said it. I did it. I would’ve had six months in a few weeks, too. Why? I guess I just felt…overwhelmed. Depressed. Frustrated. Physical symptoms of maybe a depressive mood swing that just weren’t going away–static brain, sinkhole feeling in my stomach. I had been planning it for weeks, though, so maybe the above, while real, were just excuses.

To be honest, it wasn’t fun–the drunk was boring and mechanical, I never actually felt buzzed, and what little buzz I did feel was abruptly taken away by my blacking out within, oh, about an hour of when I started drinking. Zero to 60 in like, an hour. How lame.

However, I learned a lot. And, while I still have to process some of it (I’ll do that when I’m not hung over) this, in essence, is the gist of it:

1. It still sucks to be hung over. Like, way sucks. I’ve spent today feeling alternately sluggish and anxious. I threw up a little last night (of *course* I don’t remember doing so, just like I don’t remember MOST of the conversation I had with my mom on the phone or passing out on the couch) so it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. There’s just a lethargy within, a damp feeling of confusion, uncertainty, sadness–it’s the hangover, and there is simply nothing GOOD here, in this state of mind/being.
2. I can’t drink normally. It doesn’t change. In fact, I went right back to where I left off.
3. Wine takes me to a dark place, a place of the past. I’ve grown used to being in the present, where there is light, where there is looking forward. Last night, I drank and went back, and got upset by events that have happened and aren’t happening anymore, that I haven’t let go. I think I simply NEED to let some things go. Let them be in the past, with no more dwelling.

And, I had SO many “God shots” yesterday, too, it was hilarious in a not-ha-ha kind of way that I drank anyway. From seeing two people I know, driving in their cars to the 5:30 AA meeting downtown as I drove by, en route to the store to buy wine; to having to go BACK to the store a second time to buy a corkscrew; to in between all of this, receiving a long email from one of my friends, complaining about the out-of-control, mean drinkers in her social circle and how proud she is of me for having almost six months sober!

Eh, I’m not really upset about having to start the count over. In fact, counting days is OK for a while, but… I realized today that counting days makes this into too much of a game. This is not a game, this is my life. In ways big but mostly small and subtle, stopping using alcohol as a coping mechanism has changed my life, my lifestyle, my way of viewing my life. And, all I know tonight is, I don’t want to–I can’t–go back to the other way.

Happy sober New Year! Or, I do not want what I haven’t got

31 Dec

8:53 pm

(WHAT? Oops! I meant to have this post on New Year’s Eve, but alas, my procrastinating self hasn’t figured out how to set the “self-timer” thingie on WordPress, and I still go in and manually enter the publish time (which I accidentally set for December 31, 2013). Anyhoo, here’s my rant from a few nights ago, and to be perfectly honest, I’m so over it: the event, the thoughts re: the event, and my annoying self. Done. Still…have a read and then let’s all move on, shall we?)

I haven’t been sober for New Year’s Eve in like, a decade or more. And, let me tell you, it’s GOT to be better than last year’s.

I’ve been ruminating a lot lately about my “drinking past,” and frankly, I’m over it! However, some people aren’t, and that hurts.

I called my brother last night; we haven’t spoken for almost three months (not for lack of trying), since his girlfriend’s vicious response to my amends letter–a very heartfelt, honest apology and attempt to make things right (even though, months had gone by before my brother changed his mind and told me that no, things weren’t OK, that his girlfriend was still “very angry” with me).

I’ve told the story before, but in a nutshell, last year I got really, REALLY drunk at their house on New Year’s Eve. Deerunky drunk drunk. Drunker than I think I’ve ever been, EVER. It was the culmination of a long year of basically hitting bottom over and over and over–I felt like the skipping stone that just wouldn’t stop!

Anyway, I ended up blacking out (the flip just SWITCHED) and screaming at my brother and his girlfriend, calling her names; ranting about what a crazy bitch she is (which she is, literally–victim of incest, rape, and severe psychological abuse; but has chosen to hate her way through it), how my brother doesn’t care about me, how they’ve isolated themselves in rural America, how his girlfriend has ruined his life. Blah blah blah. Yelling, crying, rolling on the floor–you get the picture. (There was also a rant about how much I hate Coldplay, which is sort of awesome and I really wish someone had filmed that part.)

The problem is, IT WAS ALL TRUE, what I said. Doh! Sigh. The worst part about getting blackout drunk is that quite often, there is truth to what you say to other people and about other people in your blackout. If you’re me, anyway. In fact, it’s like, I allow someone a completely unobstructed view of my mind, of what’s really inside my head. YIKES. And, not cool, because there are many things that people just DON’T NEED TO KNOW.

I woke up the next day as if from a nightmare. I had NO idea–it was a total blackout, with practically no flashbacks and no ability to even conjure a feeling of what went down, especially the parts related to me yelling at the girlfriend, who actually ran and hid, according to my brother. When I woke up, I remember feeling extremely pissed off, fuming, confused, and utterly unable to remember WHAT was making me feel so sick in my head, so sick to my stomach. Did I have a nightmare? Something happened, I’m sure of it. Was it a dream?

It wasn’t a dream. My brother and I had a painful talk on the stoop after I got up, and then I left. Drove the fucking 6 or 8 hours to DC with the WORST hangover on record (I’m surprised I didn’t hallucinate and drive into the ditch in the middle of West Virginia), and then spent the next, well, 12 months saying I was/am sorry. I finally wrote a letter to the girlfriend, and I got the most vicious reply in return (she wrote me a Facebook mail while drunk; does the word “irony” mean anything?).

Anyway, I’ve tried, kept calling, and I get little to nothing in return. At this point, I’m the one who’s pissed that they’re not budging–they’re continuing to hold a mighty grudge, and not ONCE have they asked me about my drinking, my getting sober, how it’s going, how I’m doing with all this. Not one question. In August, I told my brother on the phone that I had 60 days sobriety, and his reply was an awkward grunt. Oh-kay, then, guess I won’t be bringing that up with you EVER again.

I haven’t brought it up, and I doubt we can truly mend this. I’m pissed at them for not only not forgiving OR forgetting, but for lying about the fact that they did! I know I shouldn’t feel this way, because I was the one who messed up, but come on. When I write a heartfelt letter to the woman and she responds by getting drunk and telling me that I’m a “cunt who will never be loved by any man and that I should die”? And my brother, not even admitting that she sent it, let alone apologizing on her behalf, even just a little?

(To be sure, I’ve talked it out with my mother and uncle, who know the girlfriend, and they’re both on MY side. Just sayin’. I’m not sure why I keep bothering myself about someone who simply isn’t capable of having a normal relationship.)

So, this has turned into a rant, but I’m sorry, I needed to vent it in hopes of setting it free, finally, this year. I have to move on. I don’t want to be there anymore. That place was dark. I want light. I want clear thinking, healthy relating, progress.

Tonight, I’m grateful for all I have, all I’ve accomplished, and all the people in my life who have supported me through a very progressive year! I’m sober, and I’m living in [beautiful island where I now live]. I’m freelance writing/editing, and I’m doing it from wherever I want–this was a big goal of mine, one that I didn’t think I could accomplish even this year, let alone WHILE I was getting sober. I got back to [cold east coast city] for a month or so and re-discovered a possible future life there. I checked the fuck out of [cold west coast city referred to as hotel named in famous song] and have not looked back. There, I was living alone in the Tenderloin, drinking every night, and being miserable. Now, I get to care for dogs, another person, myself. I get to work and live. I have the sun every day, the ocean (one that you can swim in without a wet suit, that is) by my side. I get to dream about the future. I get to appreciate the present. I have choices, and I get to make them every single moment of every single day.

Happy new year, friends. I would not be here, in this place, without the support of my sober blogging community. You guys rock, and have taught me that whatever path you take to get to Sober Land, as long as you get there is what matters.

2013…and 90 days, coming up!

Oh, HI, Haagen-Dazs.

23 Sep

1:35 am

OK. Another thing to NOT BUY. I eat ice cream JUST like I drink: in a feeding frenzy. What, am I going to starve sometime between now and when I wake up? Jesus! I finally get rid of my wine gut (well, it was going going gone before this stupid hamstring thing that has turned me into that “ma’am who walks while eating an apple”) only to replace it with a Haagen-Dazs gut?

Le sigh.

Must calm down. Must not eat to the point where I feel ill. But, damn, was it good. There is something called “too good,” though. Too damn good. And, why is Haagen-Dazs so much better than my beloved Ben & Jerry’s? Sorry, Ben. Sorry, Jerry. You lose.

And, it was coffee ice cream, so I’m up. UP! Oh, Sparkle Tooth? Uh, nope, she’s long gone to bed. At least she’s sleeping safely, under her weeping willow, knowing that her owner is not going to wig out because she sucked down eight glasses of wine tonight.

This is the hour, too, when I loved starting a bottle of red. Perfect time to wind down, be alone, day done, sipping a glass of red. Whiiiiiich always, ALWAYS was absolute bullshit, mainly because I knew I’d be finishing the whole thing, wanting a second and then having to either deal with the disappointment or huff to whatever crackhead store was open at 2 am and buy the Worst Wine on the Planet…that I would so totally drink anyway.

That gnarly motherfucker of a hangover is still fresh in my mind, so I’m going to say, honestly, that I’m SO glad to not be pouring wine down my throat. And, tomorrow I will start again, trying to revise my diet (I have become somewhat addicted/dependent on Diet Coke, and this is NO good; I crave sweets, and my eating is…off, no other way to explain it), hopefully going for a run if the back and leg feel up to it (btw, they feel SO MUCH BETTER, verging on a manageable pain, all thanks to acupuncture), and finishing my final move stuff. I am losing steam; this summer was a trip, having packed up ONCE back in June, moved and shipped to [cold east coast city] for 6 weeks, went to the [beautiful island where I now live], and now…back here. I have two boxes I’m going to ship to said island, and the rest I’m either selling for way cheap or giving away on Craigslist. So, yes, that’s my day.

Oof, feeling ill. See? When I eat a whole pint of ice cream, I feel ill. So, I don’t do it often. It registers in my brain. The way I eat it, when I’m feeling all “grasp-y,” is the problem. But, with wine, it seems (seemed?) that no matter how many mind-bending hangovers I have, no matter how many times I black out and do stupid shit like, ruin a pair of favorite (and expensive: I checked today and the same frame is going to cost me $244 — I managed to snap them in half across the bridge and tear off one of the sides, but the lenses don’t have a scratch) glasses, it doesn’t seem to sink in. Well, maybe a little. Well, maybe a lot.

I like being sober. I am going to bed sober, and it feels like…a relief. I can predict, I can rely on, I can take solace in tomorrow, and in those nights and days of practice this summer that have led me to KNOW that drinking does not fill time, it empties it.

And, outside my window, I hear a party going on, people talking a lot of bullshit against the backdrop of sirens and a dark early morning hour. (Also, the smell of long overdone charcoal, which is just…eww.) And you know what? It’s the last place I want to be. The very, absolute last.

Good night, beautiful Sparkle Tooth (my unicorn, with sparkly teeth, who is pulling my water wagon and sometimes lets me ride on her back…in case you’re wondering).

Falling off the wagon..so YOU DON’T HAVE TO

21 Sep

2:31 pm

For real. The only good that can come of falling off (where art thou, sparkle-toothed unicorn?) the wagon A THIRD TIME is so that you, my dear readers and friends, don’t have to.

DON’T GO THERE. DRINKING SOLVES NOTHING. IT IS A TRICK OF THE MIND. IT IS A WASTE OF TIME. YOU DON’T NEED IT AND IT TASTES LIKE MOUTHWASH.

I think I just felt overwhelmed by my cravings, the voice in my head, and the resisting. I felt tired of resisting. So, I hurriedly uncorked a bottle and drank it. All of it. I was barely remembering things (didn’t take much, which is scary — what is wrong with my brain if it only takes three (huge) glasses of red wine to black me out?) when I ran (literally, I’m guessing) to the corner store to buy another. I did not finish that one, mainly because I must have passed out. I don’t remember.

Ahh. LOVELY hangover. Yes, I remember this feeling. Oh, yes. Drinking two Diet Cokes and weeping about my upcoming death. I remember this feeling. Stumbling around, finding a demolished pair of (expensive) glasses on the floor, checking my wallet to make sure that nothing’s missing, seeing wine stains on my floor and table. Yes, I remember this! Crawling to the bathroom only to heave myself back to bed. Yes. Ringing bells? Oh, yes. Crouching over my stove as I make ramen, forcing it down because I know I need something in there but nothing fills the hole and nothing will the entire day. Check. Crying some more and whining and wailing on the phone to my boyfriend who, thankfully, thinks nothing less of me and even thinks I deserve better. Yup. MISSING my fucking deadline because I can barely think, let alone write what I need to write. Done and done.

Do you remember that feeling? Is it coming back? Oh, yes.

I don’t even care about the fact that I missed my second 5 weeks (would have been 35 days today) again. What bothers me most is that my brain is simply depressed — not even sad, just void of feeling or thoughts. And, all I want is for the day — and hangover — to be over with. Waiting it out is all and will be all I’ll be doing today.

Wow, drinking really fucks up my mental landscape. What was a lovely painting with serene (pink) clouds has now become a grey wash of confusion, suicidal ideation, and nonsense. ? WTF, drinking?

(And, why do I have a memory of the corner store owner standing next to me, helping me pick out my wine? Was I standing there, in my druken stupor, unable to do it myself? Or, was he just being friendly and helpful? NO IDEA.)

Key points of this latest round?

I realize now that I don’t need to go it alone, that I DO NEED HELP, and that I need to ask for it.

I realize now that I shouldn’t isolate myself to the point of mental breakdown.

I realize now that what I wanted last night was escape — from the obsession to drink, I think, more than the overwhelming thoughts and feelings about life and people, in general.

I realize now that I USE WINE to escape and that one, I need new coping mechanisms, two, wine is my vehicle/tool, and three, there really shouldn’t be anything to “escape from,” if I’m doing it right.

I need help. But first, I need to get through this hangover.

Readers, if you’re thinking of falling off, just come here and read this. I have done it for you so that you don’t have to! It’s like riding a bike — no, it’s like falling off. It hurts every time and the feeling is never different! FUCK THAT BIKE! STAY ON THE WAGON.

Shamanic journeying through acupuncture? Yes, yes, YES!

18 Sep

11:43 am

Wow. Another KUH-RAZY experience during my acupuncture session yesterday!

(Warning: Psychobabble ahead.)

So, I’ve been to acupuncture three times now (with a new, and highly trained, it seems, therapist). Each time, I noticed an near-instantaneous buzzing feeling all over my body, and an immediate “delving” into self — the physiologic calm that acupuncture provides turns on my brain and makes me able to think deeper, more profound thoughts. Thoughts I’ve been putting off — or dreading, and therefore, TURNING OFF.

Yesterday, I realized that I’m a trauma survivor. I know, I know. WHATchu talkin’ ’bout, Willis? Come ON, DDG, give me a buh-reak! Seriously. I grew up within a very volatile, ugly marriage. My parents would yell and scream and sometimes even wield knives (true story). Everyone knew. They’d often tell us to go outside and “play,” which was code for, We’re going to shut the windows and scream at each other now. It was usually my mom screaming at my dad, and it usually happened when we were in bed, “sleeping.” It usually ended with her thrusting our living room doors closed with a loud BANG, and going to bed alone while my dad slept on the couch.

This went on for as long as I can remember (from about 5 to when they finally separated at 14). It was ugly. I would often and regularly hear things like, “Go fuck yourself if you even know how.” When they’d fight at night, I would weep in my bed. Silently. I learned how to cry really hard without making a sound. I was afraid, and I was also ashamed — my brothers slept in the same room (we had no doors on our two-bedroom upstairs), and I never heard them make a sound, so how horrible would it be if I did? Repression was the name of the game.

(I often wonder why kids blame themselves, or at least, internalize their parents’ anger and guilt and sadness when it comes to divorce? Here’s what I now think (thanks to my acupuncture “meditation”): kids KNOW that they represent the connection between their biological (and perhaps even nonbiological) parents. They know that they somehow make up each, and are (or were, LOL) the union between them. Thus, if there is a schism between the two, it’s somehow their fault. Somehow, it comes back to them, and they feel/take on the responsibility to “fix it.” It’s hard to explain, but I definitely KNOW that this is true, on an emotional level, even though intellectually — even as a kid, when we were told again and again that it wasn’t our fault — I might not believe it.)

As you can imagine, this kind of environment came with a lot of not-talking-about-the-elephant-in-the-room, tiptoeing around landmines, and (guessed at) battle lines not being crossed. I spent a good part of my teens feeling VERY ashamed and full of self-loathing (I had entire notebooks of hate poems to myself), and I wonder if that isn’t related to other, deeper trauma, but anyway… The trauma was never properly dealt with, I now believe. It was never confronted, handled, resolved, on the level that I needed it to be. So, I think I’ve spent my entire life putting up that early-learned stance, the one of me crouched, gut clenched, breath held, arms covering my face — ready for the punch. I was never physically abused, but I think emotional and psychological abuse — however inadvertant — can be just as bad. I know it was for me.

As I lay on the table, I realized that perhaps I have been hiding from this trauma my whole life, as a way to “make it” or “live my life,” never realizing that I hadn’t fully embraced it. And, without having fully accepted what happened to me, I was never able to let it go. Like, it now seems that ALL of my jobs, ALL of my romantic relationships have been situations that have helped SERVE my denial, my hiding from the trauma. (Hiding from being overly sensitive? Find a partner who doesn’t seem to notice anything! Not wanting to deal with feeling unloved? Become an overachiever and work yourself to the bone!) And, drinking has not only been a way of hiding from it when it bubbled up too close to the surface, but also a way to *experience* it. Too bad I was digging in the wrong hole.

Digging in the wrong hole? There came a point toward the end (last two or three years) of my blackouts where I was wanting the release, the unguarded expression of what I thought were authentic feelings. I wanted to express my trauma, but I was using booze to do it and that only served to hide myself from it further. On the table, I saw how traumatized I was as little girl. I saw myself on the table, and I saw the little girl (almost as a dream, but more real). I wanted to go and hug her and tell her she had nothing to be afraid of, that she was protected. I felt sorry for her. Which made me see clearly that, for some reason, as a little girl I think I just never felt protected. And I never realized this could have trickled down into every corner of the rest of my life. Yet, it has. Hence, the panic stance that I’ve been carrying myself in my entire life.

It was then that I realized that the “soul retrieval” aspect to shamanic journeying is not such the load of bullshit that I thought it was! Like, I honestly felt that I had been living in two “pieces” my whole life, one being myself, the person who works and lives and loves and tries to make it through life; and the other, the little girl self, the one who has been stuck back there, living in that trauma day in and day out for the past 33 years! In journeying, they say that soul retrieval is about picking up a part of your lost self and fusing/fixing the splintered whole, or schism, within. I need to subsume that girl and make us whole again, I thought. (Have you ever seen “Insidious?” Astral travel? Along those lines.) By doing so, I realized that yes, my trauma can be ended, that it IS over, that I don’t have to keep trying to find it OR hide from it via booze and blacking out.

I felt really sad, very emotional (cried all afternoon), and well, tired. I went to bed at 9 pm and finally dragged myself out 12 hours later. I woke up with a huge headache (that may be a caffeine headache, though). In essence, I felt hung over. BUT, I felt like I really did have a powerful experience of healing that has MADE ME WANT TO DRINK TO BLACKOUT LESS.

This is profound, to me. It makes me see that rehabilitation surrounding booze IS real and CAN work. It flies in the face of “rational recovery,” which basically says that there is nothing behind your drinking besides your selfish, overindulgent hand. NOT THE CASE. I honestly believe, at this moment, that drinking to excess would NOT be preferable to me now, mainly because I no longer need to dig deep to bring out that trauma; I’ve recognized it, and now, I can let it go. Wishful thinking?

This doesn’t mean that I’m going to drink — or even want to — but it does mean that I’ve finally begun feeling the real, authentic shit behind my desire to black out, which in essence, means that I won’t be striving — secretly wanting to simultaneously fill AND empty the void — to black out when I drink. Which means, this desire may have nothing to do with the substance itself. Which may mean that in a few months, or years, from now, I WILL be able to pick up a glass of wine and put it down. Wishful thinking? Maybe. Maybe not.

The science (and art…lessness) of the Blackout

16 Sep

6:29 pm

I was in H&M the other day and overheard this early 20s kid say he’d never had a blackout. His friend saved my day by quickly snapping back, Well, your time is coming.

What are blackouts? And, why are they generally speaking so horrible for everyone? It’s like, almost everyone I’ve known or read about who’s had a blackout has experienced some kind of insane, irrational anger. Rage, is more like it. Coupled with confusion, paranoia, anxiety, and fear, in no particular order. I get that all these latter things come with deep-seated parts of the brain literally being put to bed with extreme amounts of ethanol. BUT, why does the anger come out? Why do normally happy people not only let down their guard and get pissy, they typically become raging, sometimes violent, while blacked out?

Ahem. I’m one of those ragers. I literally turn into one big angry cunt. Who has no rational brain cells working. Why is this? And, am I the angry bird, or is it the booze making me angry? Or, does the booze simply open up the spout that’s always turned off, in a way that makes it rush too much and distorts it? Or, does the booze exacerbate the anger, and make it irrational? Is my fear and anger over many big and small things being amplified by the booze? Or, is that level of anger inside me all the time, just waiting to come out?

I think the booze exacerbates and makes irrational what resides within. Sometimes. Other times, I really don’t know where that level of vitriol, that extreme hatred even, comes from.

I need to find some clinical readings on this topic. It’s been driving me insane for years. Is it me, am I that fucked up? Or, is it the booze? And, WHY does booze do this? Where did that illustrious “all-knowing” being who created humans go wrong? How could he/she/it NOT make sure to put in some fail-safe to avoid me becoming a wino (or depressed and obsessive in the first place, for that matter)? And, once that was breached, how could it possibly have created beings who are capable of such horrific, and irrational, emotions — anger being one — when overloaded on booze? One BIG hit against the god theory and in favor of evolution (which, in case you haven’t noticed, I am) — we were NOT “created” without flaws. Maybe, over time, once the human race has gotten used to consuming alcohol, we’ll become immune to blackouts. But, what about the anger? Why will the “angry drunk” just not die?

And, most interesting to me, WHY IS IT ALWAYS ANGER that is stimulated to come out when we’re blacked out? Is that our primal shutting-down state of mind: confusion, fear, anxiety, and anger? Why is this?

Unfinished business…

16 Sep

5: 26 pm

It’s always going to be unfinished business with certain people.

I have to call my brother tonight; we’ve had very little contact since “the incident” over New Year’s. I totally let out my rage on and against his girlfriend (gf) — unfortunately, it was mostly true. They hold grudges and are in, what I would call, an emotionally co-dependent and (on her part) psychologically abusive relationship. Getting her to forgive and forget is not an option. The last time I called him — or, did he call me? Yes, he called me back — he called me from OUTSIDE a store, in the parking lot. Once his gf got back into the truck and closed the door (yes, he told me that she was sitting in the truck with the door closed), he had to go.

I have to keep calling him, but I honestly don’t want to. Tonight, I will get up the courage to confront him and say, What do you want me to do? I can send a card. I have no idea what to say, how to keep saying, I’m sorry for calling your gf all those things, and I’m doubly sorry I did because both you and I know they’re the truth. I HAVE said I’m sorry, egregiously, to him; I was afraid to make direct contact with her because the way we left it. She refused to see me the morning I left, so it was just my brother and I who talked. THAT was a hard, horrible talk. The whole nightmarish weekend will go down as probably my worst, most insane, most confusing — do I really hate his gf that much? I didn’t think so — blackout on record.

Still. THEY have to learn to forgive, forget, stop holding grudges, and move on, too. They also have a long way to go in terms of HER getting help for her mental problems and personality disorder and HIM learning how to say no, stand up for himself and those he cares about, think for himself, and stop the abuse. I can’t do that, and I definitely don’t want to. BUT, even still, I feel like it’s my fault that she triggered me so horribly, and she’s definitely put the full weight of the blame on me. That is unfair, but that’s why she’s the psychologically abusive partner in that relationship. She acts like a 14-year-old girl, and while yes, I get that she’s the victim of years of abuse and trama on her end, there comes a point — 42 years old, is she? — where one has to say, OK, I choose to engage on a mature, rational level with others and acknowledge what’s going on WITH ME, and not what the world is DOING TO ME. Hard to explain this woman, but let’s just say, no one in my family can really deal with her without booze, let alone with.

It all just makes for sucky Sunday, which is the day I usually reserve for calling family. Ugh. And no, I don’t want to drink. I just want to be able to go along with my days, staying sober, feeling good about that, and not have to feel guilty every single time — still guilty, guilty forever — I think about calling my brother.

I wonder, how much does unfinished business affect us on a subconscious level?

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