Dear diary . . . Why think when you can drink. This has been the motto of most of my adult life. When you are a voyeur to your own life in your head, these things happen. The world is too much with me. The eternal recurrence, the recurring question in my mindās eye, is I need some brow work. Then, fix the teeth, lose the pounds and get rid of the unwanted hair. You see, Iām 51 years old and am supposed to be settled or a grandparent or something of that nature. Iām not supposed to be a creative swimming in a sea of twentysomethings, and if I am, Iām told I should be some kind of elder statesman/protector of the realm. Yet, you see, Iām becoming Y. My few and far between sober moments in life have been as tortured if not more because of a little minutiae that became the landscape called my identity. Look, ma! I finally figured out what I want to be when I grow up. You can be eccentric when youāre rich. Camille Paglia published Sexual Personae at 43. I can still be every thing I want to be. āIn every work of art, the artist himself herself is present.ā Or in her words: āShhhh, no one cares.ā Lying in bed, feeling like a woman. The realization and conversation this week has led me to the conclusion that I can finally be me. I figure when only 6 years of the 33 youāve spent as an adult render sobriety, itās time to go to the source of the misery. I am nervous, giddy, terrified . . . Call me Sienna.
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