Rollercoaster

Dear diary :-)
I cannot grasp what is going on with me. I am very much having a bumpy ride. One minute my life feels like a Cure song, the next is an "Oh Cap'tain, my Cap'tain"-moment, and sometimes I'm perfectly numb, doing my job very well at work.
Re-reading the sentence above, I realise that all three states described above could be both positive and negative, so I fear I'm not as good an image-imaginer as I'd wish, but if anybody is still with me by now, I'm content at that.

I have to write some of my recent experiences down. Well, good, that's what this thing is for, stupid!

Being a reluctant rules-maniac, I was very proud that we chose to not to do the smartest thing a few times, recently. I'm having a very hard time not being Hitler for my kids (if I had his abilities as a demagogue (Urban Dance Squad rules), a silly pack of hair on my upper lip and some even more deranged ideologies (mine are generally leftfield), I'd kick some allied forces' ass), so loosening the grip helps them AND me.

Ruben's teacher is a doll. The way she treats him, looks at him, loves him: it makes me tingle.
Ilse talked to her about me being less of a communicator (context= Ruben having some help on this by his sis' and his teach'), and she replying 'yeah, I noticed that', hurt. I noticed I got very defensive on that. I'm quite busy inspiring myself to 'just talk to people', to be friendly more than polite (I know that I am polite beyond most peoples' capabilities - I'm good at nodding good morning, and it's sad to say: most lads and lasses don't even get there), and I'm even more ashamed of everytime I fail to complete a simple task like "when you meet someone you know in the local supermarket, don't look the other way", so you can see my trouble with this: nobody likes his own ragged truth. It takes me a blog to say that she doens't look bad either.

I'm sorry, I have to write this, and I know its technically public.
I sometimes have a BIG problem with Ilse flirting (with other men, of course). If I ever, ever forbid her to do this, I am sure that it's mentally downhill from there for me (so close to the black swamp already). But at times, it kills me. Please, my love, be patient with a man that never knew physical love in his childhood (the HUG) and that is trying so hard to be the ideal man. It's one of the many flaws of the perfect man that he's trying to be better still, I guess. (Can you guess which of the states I mentioned in the beginning I'm in right now?)

I think I have some kind of drinking problem. I'm going to hate myself in the morning for writing this (and for Ilse reading it), but I actually find some consolation in the bottle. In fact, it's not just the bottle: I long for anything that will make the thinking stop: adrenaline, focus on work, alcohol, forbidden sexuality (well, forbidden by "the community"), and if I would make the step at this time in life: drugs.
I'm too scared to go farther on any other account, but I've taken on the habit of drinking in the evening, and liking the soft numbness of impending drunkness. It helps me to be nice to women at parties (instead of blocking myself), it makes my brain slower (not that I'm Einstein or anything, but the mix of emotions and thoughts is confusing enough for the slightly above mediocre grey mass), and... well, I guess there is nothing more to it.
I'm not drinking liver-threatening quantities, and I'm not hiding any bottles just yet, but I feel that I am very capable of both. I don't want to become an alcoholic, but I like the softened me so much.
Is there an answer besides stopping? I've changed myself in many a good way, but I fear I cannot do this without losing my mind. I need some insanity to be able to be civilised. If you read "the Secret History", you will know all about Dyonisos' madness. This sounded SO appealing to me. I try so hard to be the best man (not just the best husband) I can (and so often feel I fail), and I think this is my big sin I'm willing to carry. I must be out of my mind.

Where is my lack of mind?
I've hardly ever tried this, but violence is also a wonderful way of escaping me. Fight Club is not about Brad Pitt. It's about a potential me.

I'm going to sleep now. Ruined enough already. Maybe I'm not so OK. Maybe something happened this evening that just triggered (expanded?) unhappy thoughts.

I broke my rule of not correcting myself afterwards in posts or mails. I didn't wipe out any incriminating facts though, just added parentheses.

Nobody's supposed to be this honest.