A-holic

Do you ever feel like you're getting your shit together for like the nine hundredth time this year? That's me. I mean, do people who aren't a-holics just understand this all their lives? I'm getting used to the ebb and flow of my life, although I'm still surprised by how it does it. After almost four years sober I know what's coming mostly- about four times a year I get sad and lost, and about four times a year I pick myself up and find a way around that corner again. 

I wonder if it's stretching out my life suit, like growing but instead of in sizes in measures of prayer and hands up. But also like my ass is spreading out some, like I'm settling it down into the mud that is my life, wiggling it into the mud for a long stay. Getting comfortable. Finding a home.

I was laughing with my therapist the other day about how impossible it seems that until about eight months ago I had no idea that I struggled with anxiety. And now that I know it I recognize it everywhere- in traffic, at work, teaching yoga, when my kids argue, when my husband doesn't seem to see me, when people disagree and I'm not even involved, when I feel lost about who I even am anymore, should I have a cup of tea or water- there it is: anxiety. Is it attachment to outcome that makes me grab on so hard or just the fear of being an afterthought? 

But because I recognize it I can recognize it. And then that helps me to understand that if I recognize it then I can surrender to it because it's something I know. It's like the day I decided to quit drinking- I recognized myself as a person who is an alcoholic and so I understood that I could surrender to that, that it was safer to be an alcoholic than it was to be someone who would spend another day denying what I knew was the truth. 

Is there a difference between an alcoholic and a problem drinker? I only know that as soon as I slapped the label of "alcoholic" on myself I got sober. How fucking weird is that. It brings me a strange comfort in a way to be able to call this strong forceful part of myself something. Over the years that grew into calling myself an "a-holic" because I don't just only want to drink all the booze, in varying degrees I am driven to have more more more of anything that feels like permission. Giving this part of me a name gives it a form, it gives me something I can grab on to and hold and shake and shape. It gives me a part of myself I can identify and recognize. It makes it so when I feel anxious and I'm holding a handful of chocolate covered raisins I can think about who is holding those raisins and be able to put them back. It gives me someone to run to in the dark, someone to hand the light and pull in and tell sweet things like "it's okay" and "I think you need water".

I'm interested in your thoughts. 

Good Advice

I've been feeling super cocky in my sobriety lately. (Being in a magazine didn't hurt.) Like I am a sober badass, and will be forever. Nothing will stop me. After a summer/early fall of feeling pretty wavery and sad and just down in the dumps something changed and I took another step up- another leap away from boozy me and towards this awesome new person I am slowly becoming, that I already am.

It still feels very uncomfortable to think of myself in positive terms, but I'm practicing. A lot.

Which makes me realize that at some point in my life I felt really good about me, and then I felt toooo good about me. And then I got knocked down several times and finally stayed down.

I can be quite firm in my beliefs. Almost unbending. I can also be "If I can, you can. So just do it." Not super fair.

I want so much for anyone struggling with alcoholism to find their way to sobriety- consistent, lasting sobriety. And I'm at this point where I have almost a year, and I feel good about it, but I cannot forget where I came from. That bossing people into being sober (which is where I was heading) is not the way to help people to be sober.

Alcoholics aren't really the type you can boss into anything. Alcoholism is really an act of defiance. You can't really manhandle people like that (me) into anything, much less saving their own lives. Lord knows no one could have told me to stop drinking. It just would have made me drink more. And it did! The more I told myself I needed to quit the more I wanted to drink. You can't tell me what to do.

I'm struggling some with guidance and excuses. How to hear someone's struggle and it be expansive, and then how to draw lines in the sand that define boundaries that cannot be crossed. How to hear explanations, but not excuses. How to have forgiveness, and have expectations. How to hear people in their sobriety, not mine.

My universe friend Amy and I had a really good good conversation yesterday and I could tell I was feeling so smart and wise and superhuman. My advice is so good. My thoughts are wonderful and the best. I was basking in my glory.

And then she said some things in her universe Amy way that brought me back to earth.

One of them thundered through my head: "When you start feeling invincible is when it gets really dangerous. Then you could be way more likely to drink."

It reminded me to be humble in my sobriety. It reminded me to listen to those who have years on me, that my wisdom is far from complete. It reminded me that I am me, and you are you. And that to be the strong person I am and want to be I have to be able to use what works for me, but then I also have to use what works for you, too.  It reminded me that I have a lot to give, and a long long way to go.

Bogged and Boggier

 I have been so wiped out by my self lately. It's all ho hum, and meh, and blah around here. I was having a conversation with someone today about how why life just keeps on dishing it out when it's totally clear that right now you just cannot take it? How can I call "Uncle" or put up a "T" for time out and then I get a break from my head and my heart and I just be while laying out in the grass watching the clouds roll by?

I get so bogged down by things I'm not doing, or the things that aren't going right that I completely forget about the good stuff. And then I'm impatient with myself for feeling that way, and then I need an all day run to straighten myself out- or to at least slog out of the bog and maybe into the tall grass.

There's this thing I do. It's called: TOO MUCH. I am very good at too much. Perhaps a pro even. I eat too much cookies. Too much wallowing. Too much negativity? I've got it. I'm a gold medalist in too much self criticism. Numero uno at wanting to hide and hibernate, and also great at too much blaming other people when I'm not feeling good with myself. Too much afraid of life, of always being in this position I'm in and never getting on with it.

This part of early sobriety is not fun at all. It's not too much fun, it's the opposite of that. So I don't have the market cornered as far as the too much there.

So I guess I'm running up the boggy hill, bogging it up. I'm still going, but not very happy about it. I want my clouds back- pink or whatever. I liked that better. I feel better for a bit and then back to *sigh*.

And then I read about people dying in Boston and I feel like an asshole. So I guess what to do is this: keep slogging, keep bogging. And most important keep blogging. And really most important: remember to be grateful even when you feel like a grumpy black cloud. Because I'm sober and alive, and I can never get too much of that.

Give it Up, Give it Up Again...

A blog friend recently had a relapse. That sounds so clinical, though, doesn't it? It sounds better to me to say a blog friend recently chose to drink after a little over a month sober. And we all get it. If you're reading this you probably have, at least once, told yourself that you were going to quit drinking. And then you probably drank again. I have promised myself to stay sober and then drank myself silly. Again, and again, and again. Until that last time.

I can't make guarantees that you will deep down believe since you haven't known me long. And some days I don't believe that I will never, ever, EVER??? drink again. I haven't known me long either. But in my heart I know. I know I can't. I know I just plain flat out don't want to. I don't want to. At the end of a hard day, or a sunny day, or a day that I'm alive there is just not a reason for me to drink. Period. I don't crave it, I don't want it. I don't miss it.

I don't miss it.

I'm reading this great, great great book by Augusten Burroughs called This is How. He talks about a lot of different things. I'm on this part now about drinking and he says basically this: It is not hard to quit drinking. You just don't drink. You decide that sobriety is more important than being drunk. Period. And if you drink then you've decided that being drunk is more important than sobriety. And that the past is the past. It doesn't make you who you are today. I think I drank for as long as I did because I believed that was who I was: Amy who drinks and wishes she could quit. That was the core of my identity. It was all I thought about. Either drinking, or quitting. Every day. Over and over and over. Years and years. And fucking years. It was my second job, all that thinking about drinking.

Surrender is a funky kind of word. It can mean you throw back your arms and head and let the world come at you like a breeze. It can mean you become small and lose yourself to fear. It can mean you give up every belief you have about yourself because maybe, just maybe you were wrong about you. I was wrong about me.

Surrender means you give up. Here though: have another perspective. Instead of surrendering to booze, or surrendering to the idea that you are powerless (NEVER, ever, ever are you powerless over booze. EVER.) Surrender to sobriety. Surrender yourself to strength. Don't surrender to a higher power- be a higher power. And no, I don't mean start calling yourself God. But I do mean create a universe. I do mean create days and nights. And light. I do mean make a life. And on some days rest.

I'm gonna tell you this: If you will not or don't want to surrender you will find a reason to drink again. You will find an excuse. You will reason it out in your head all the whys why it's OK this one time. And you'll get drunk and you'll be sad about it later. Or even while you're doing it. You'll pull out the powerless card and throw it on the table alongside your glass of booze and cry inside "But I need it!!! I can't live without it!!! Why can't I have it?" Surrender. Because you can't. You just fucking can't. Give it up. Out of all the glorious things in life there is only one thing you cannot have: alcohol. Drop that shit like a bad habit. Cede from the land of booze. Abandon that baby. And don't look back.

Curse Show

I'm not sure what it is about sobriety that makes me want to cuss like crazy. And not like "Awwww, fuck." Like "Fuck yeah!" or "Holy shit!"

Yesterday on my run my ego started whining, "This is kind of hard. Shouldn't we slow down and get comfortable?" And I spoke up, "Fuck you! RUN! It's supposed to be hard!" Then I chanted "Fuck you, run fuck you, run, fuck you, run" until I finished my last mile really fast for me. And then I walked and beamed and felt great since I gave that ol' ego bastard a beat down.

Oh, life. Aren't you funny? When I got home the dogs were filthy. Beaming at the back door, hair all stringy from the mud. Only their heads we a little dry. And us with a broken shower dog rinser thing-y. Cue ego: "Oh, no. This is haaarrrrddddd. What will we do? Let's just avoid this situation." I was noticing a trend here. Things get hard, ego hands you the easy card. Or a wine glass. Fuck you. Deal.

Instead we made a dog pen in the dining room so they could eat, drink, and dry off. (Side note: Dogs still messy. You should see the dirt on the couch from it drying and falling off while Jelly slept. Holy shit.)

As an encore life had this one last thing while I was two minutes from finishing dinner: "Mom? Hampton just threw up all over the coffee table." (my oldest said this so casually I thought he was kidding.) I walked in to the room to look. Yep. Barf. Coffee table, rug. And then all over the kitchen floor where he tried to make it to the toilet. Ego: "Waaahhhhhhhhh!!! Whhhhhyyyyyyyy?????? Who will clean this up?" I actually considered for a brief millisecond calling my husband at work so he could come home and clean it up.

And then I handled it. Fuck you. Big girl boots. Clomp. Clomp.

Sobriety. It's this cool place where you suddenly get to decide. You decide you can do hard things, and then you do them. It's this place where you have to yell strong words like 'fuck' and 'shut the fuck up' to that whiny part of you that's such a damned coward. It's where I get to feel like a superhero because I do hard things like run fast, handle dirty dogs, and mop up vomit.

It's where, in the night, I can go to my little sick four year old son. I hear his tiny voice "Mommy? Mommy?" and I'm there. I'm all there. I can rub his back, and look into his olive brown eyes. Push back his dirty blond hair. Hold the trash can while he barfs. And I'm not drunk. I'm not drunk.

Fuck yeah. :)

Holy Shit Y'all.

I woke up in the middle of Monday night and felt the mind race gearing up so I turned on the TV. I was looking for Law and Order (always on, puts me right to sleep) and the image on the screen froze. So I started flipping channels. They were all frozen. Then this appeared on the screen:

"After eighteen years of sobriety, Terry relapsed two years ago." 

Holy shit y'all.

EIGHTEEN YEARS. 

RELAPSED. 

6570 DAYS. 

Holy fucking SHIT y'all.

It turns out the show was "Intervention"- which for me is enthralling and totally depressing. I used to get secret satisfaction from watching people who were waaaayyyyyy more fucked up than me. Then I would rationalize: "I'm not chugging mouthwash in a locked bathroom. Phew. I'm just fine." I liked to see the people get better. That made me feel like if only someone would whisk me away to a fabulous rehab then I could be the sober one waiting for my family to get there. And that my hair would look better.  

And then sometimes the catch-up info at the end would say things about relapsing, and getting sober again. And I would think it wasn't possible. That everyone goes back. Why even try? 

I haven't watched "Intervention" since I quit drinking. I found out that watching people fucked up on booze and drugs is uncomfortable and depressing. And not (for me) a vehicle of deterrent. More like the bus over the high cliffs of hopeless. I read that sentence on the TV screen and wanted to shake Terry with all my might. I wished I could have been there to yell "DON'T DO IT!!!!" when he picked up that bottle and told himself after EIGHTEEN YEARS that it was OK. (Terry also went back to his crack habit, too. Thank you sweet baby Jesus I never had one of those.) At the intervention he said yes. Then he relapsed again. And then got sober again. And now? Well, who knows?

I have been almost rudely lucky since the stars aligned and I chose to get sober when I was exactly the readiest. I don't want to drink. Most of the time. Ninety percent of it. The I see some shit like that and I feel like I might need a suit of armor. A bodyguard. Or at least a guard dog. A mouth chastity belt? Now that would be cool. Right. Mouth locks are the new black. 

This looks comfy eh?

I don't want to be at my sons' wedding in eighteen years and blow it. "Why is mom doing keg stands at the family reunion?" Lord. 

I don't tell myself,  "I won't drink today, just for today. I can drink tomorrow if I want to." I tell myself,  "You can never ever drink again. It ruins you." Because then for me there is no decision to be made. It's kind of like asking if I'll push that old lady in front of the speeding train. It's the never asked question. There is no question. The answer is always "NO!!!". And you really don't have to ask. This doesn't work for everybody. The thought of never drinking again makes me feel relieved, not desperate. It could be all in the way you look at it. Or it could be just me. But it works for me. And hopefully it will for years. 

On the Line

I had so much time to think, so much time to stew and fret and dream while I was sick. I thought of about fifty different posts I wanted to write, and managed to at least title a few so I wouldn't forget. I save those as drafts to come back to later. If you knew me- like you're getting too but probably not that well yet since this blog is only a little bit old, and not really. This blog is really young. I feel really young sometimes too- not in that vibrant toss me a bikini way, but more of a tender baby bird way, and mostly just with my feelings. My skin has started to do the crepe-y thing when I gently bunch it together, god knows that is not young. Or young feeling. When I bunch my feelings together they do something new and different too. And it's a very breakable feeling.

Like I was saying...if you knew me you'd know that patience is not my best act. It's actually one of my worst routines. Ever. I'm sitting here now wanting to get to the end of this post so I can see how it turns out. I always rush the end. Saving drafts of posts is like torture. I get frustrated doing housework because it's taking too long. Sometimes the childrens' pace makes me want to burst Hulk-like from my skin, and then turn around and smack myself for being such an asshole. Sometimes I'm so mad at my husband but I'm really just mad at my own self. I want to cause a fight entirely to get to the end.

I suspect all this comes from a few places: childhood dramas, hiding from my alcoholic self trying to make it look like everything is fine look here if we rush by in this blur you can't see how hungover I am! or if I speed everything along then bedtime comes faster and I can sleep and not deal with anything. Anything at all.

It's funny how God, or the universe, or mother nature- whoever or whatever you pray to or talk to- aligns things just right so even when you're rushing by you can't help but pause. A spiritual speed bump. A soul ka-thump.

I have felt very proud, and very in control being sober all these days in a row. I feel far away from that heartsick woman who healed herself with too much wine and denial. But I'm not quite sure how to make this sober me wait. To take my time. To shut the fuck up before I put my foot in my mouth again. (Since I tend to process out loud all over people instead of in my own head.) To not expect everyone (like husband) to have a great healing just because I'm getting my shit together. To understand that years of hurts don't just disappear because I put down my wine glass and said "I'm sorry".

Agh. That's what's hard. It's hard to make up for being drunk. For the things said and done when booze ran the world. It's hard to sincerely apologize for something you don't really remember saying or doing. Especially when you pretended so well that you did remember when you were actually in the middle of a blackout. Again, and again.

It's hard to feel "well"  and then feel that shame. Oh, the shame. What a beast. What a burden.

It's hard to be patient and let the beauty unfold when you've finally put it all on the line.

Through the Wringer

This is me yesterday, only I'm not the woman with the purple hair, I'm one of those flat women. I think the one in green. I had a meeting at work and it was a doozy. Add that to the great ground beef fiasco Sunday night and maybe both of those women are me-well, the one in green is me, then the one in red is my nerves. Since my nerves could be on the outside of my body they've been tested so hard this week. And I think they have that surprised look, like WTF just happened here?

Yesterday, after this two hour meeting (which was not all bad, most of it was very good, but the bad part was bad. I'd been having trouble with my boss. He said sorry and his boss said put it in the past.) I felt like I'd been run over by a truck. I was jangle-y, tense, spent. I sat in the driveway on the phone trying to give my husband a five minute synopsis and all I could think was, "I NEED A FUCKING DRINK." (see comments in picture above)

Of course then I remembered that I don't do that anymore. And I only intensely wanted one for about a minute. Because then I also remembered that a drink wasn't what I really wanted, and it surely wasn't what I needed.  What I needed was some dinner. Lots of deep breaths. Some normal life.

Normal life. As in go inside. Hug kiddos. Make dinner. Let my inner mama take over. (my mama, as in me mothering myself) I was patient when I wanted to fuss and grrrrrr. I somehow got through pj's and stories without losing my mind.

My inner mama doesn't play. Now that she knows I'm listening she is not afraid to speak up. And she doesn't like excuses.

Me: "But I had that awful meeting at work and I want to bury my head under the covers and feel sorry for myself. Wah wah wah."

Inner Mama: "That has nothing whatsoever to do with these two boys who love you and want to spend time snuggled close to mommy. Chop chop. And do try to enjoy it. Plenty of time for sad burrowing in a bit."

I made myself do it.

Y'all, no matter how bad and hard and sad and terrible some things have been this week I know that because I'm sober I am getting through it instead of going around and around again. It's been hard to feel- really feel all these roller coaster emotions- to throw my hands into the air for the biggest hills, mouth wide open wailing with fright and sorrow. Feeling the grace of comfort and the warmth of pride for doing it all without my old avoidance technique- i.e. seven glasses of wine. Phew. This shit is real.

I have been through the wringer this week. And the most important part is that I made it out to the other side.

The Voice

I'm not sure when I picked up the voice in my head that runs a pretty much constant commentary starting when I wake up. Oh, wait. That's me. So maybe I'm really wondering when I got to be such a damn downer. I don't really notice until I'm peeing first thing in the morning feeling a little grumpy and I suddenly think, "Why am I in a bad mood already? Nothing has even happened yet!" I have to chuckle to myself since it's so stupid to wake up mad at nothing, but it's annoying. Ooops. I'm being a downer again.

That voice makes mountains out of molehills. Mountains that I can climb all day until I have blisters on my poor little soul. That voice can take a small burst of impatience and turn it into me being a terrible mother in my head for hours. Me: "Everything is fine. Everyone gets impatient." Voice: "No they don't. You suck you suck you suck you suck." That voice was the thing that told me to drink, too. Me: "Drinking makes me miserable." Voice: "So what? Just go get wine and you'll feel so much better. You're drunk you're drunk you're drunk you're drunk."

I used to ask my me voice to get stronger when I was running. I would beg me to step up and save me from the voice- don't listen don't listen don't listen don't listen. When I was running I would feel so strong and capable and me would step right up and say "We've got this" and I would believe it until 5 o'clock or so when the voice would push me aside and suddenly I'm at the store buying cigarettes and overpriced beer. Before you knew it the kids would be in front of the TV and I would be in the backyard smoking with my first quick drink chillin' on the air conditioner unit. I always liked it in the summer when the A/C would come on and blow the smoke away so the neighbors wouldn't know I was smoking. A forty-one year old woman hiding in the trees.

In a moment of clarity I realized that the reason this voice probably started was when I was waking up hungover and guilty and I had the constant tape on replay "You suck you suck you suck you suck". Twenty years of that can be hard to undo. I know that. I really know it. I know in my heart I have to be gentle with my breakable new self; I'm only twenty-one days in for goodness sake. Give "me" a break. But sometimes I feel so good, so real, that when the voice pops up I feel so surprised: "Oh...you're still here?" And isn't it odd that the part of me that's doing the healthy thing feels bad, instead of the part that's wanting me to self destruct?

I hate that fucking voice. Now I just need to learn not to listen.

Free Booze

Last night we went to my husband's Christmas party.

I prepped him and myself for my first event as a card carrying sober person. (Well, I guess I could make myself a card. Maybe I should. And I would make one for you too. Just let me know if you need one.) I told him it might be hard for me, and we might have to leave really early. I made it a point to bring the kiddos as a "Mommy-can't-party-down-look-here's-the-kids" shield. Thoughts of sparkly soda water danced in my head. I promised myself I would eat food. Some of everything. More than one dessert if I wanted to.

(sidenote: I never really noticed this before but at other parties over the years I never ate the food. I was too busy hopping back in line for another drink. Which could be why I wound up so drunk.)

The bar was beautiful. The house was beautiful. The kitchen.Was.Incredible. But the bar was too. Scotches glowing amber in the festive lights, giant bottle of Grey Goose vodka, thousands ( I am exaggerating a little here) of beers on ice,  champagne chilling and looking so fine in the bucket and in everyone's hands.

(another sidenote: Champagne/sparkling was my favorite. Towards the end of my drinking era I latched on to a particular brand of Prosecco and I could finish the bottle by the kids' bedtime.)

We got there around 6 o'clock, and a few people were already sort of hammered. There were loads of people, the house was huge, and I knew about three people. (One being the woman my husband introduced me to on the way up to the house.) I'm not the greatest at small talk, and I can be a little shy. Until I've had a few glasses of wine. Then it's easier. Then after five or six you've latched on to your new very best friend, or they've latched on to you. Without that I'm not quite certain who to talk to or how to be. I'm not so sure a drink-y social event full of strangers was the best idea on my tenth day of sobriety.

BUT.

Y'all, I did it.

I drank a lot (A LOT) of Pellegrino. I ate pimento cheese and biscuits, guacamole, tasty chicken wings. The kiddos and I tried all the desserts, and then a maple bacon donut when they arrived. My husband sort of fussed around me like a mother hen while trying to be social. I stayed downstairs in the playroom with all the kids. I made awkward conversation with a few mothers who came down to check on their children. I hooted and hollered at a few rousing games of table top Foosball. I scared a little girl into laughter several times who was playing with what looked like a Whitesnake band member wearing a cape with an action Incredible Hulk. I remember all of it. Every bit. And by 7:15 I had had enough. I don't think I've ever thought that at a party before.

I told my husband we had to go. He went up to pass out goodbyes while we found our coats. I knew he didn't want to leave, but he did without so much as a dirty look. (damn sober wife.) The children talked in excited voices about how much fun they had. I stumbled around in my brain trying to wrap my head around the fact that I just went to a party with delicious free booze and I didn't have any.

But, that booze wasn't free. The cost for me is huge. It would have cost me a good night's sleep. It would have robbed me of sitting here, right now, writing for me and for you. It would have put me right back to day one, to starting all the fuck over again. It would have taken this day, and more days, and then my whole life away from me. So I will remain booze free.

Sober Like Sunday Morning

Back in the Drinking Days:

7 AM    I'm huddled under the covers. The bedroom is dark, dark. My breath reeks of booze and cigarettes. I'm fuzzy and on the surface of sleep. I can hear one of the children stirring. Ugh. Why do they have to get up sooooo early? (As if this is some sort of new thing. Like they normally sleep 'til noon, what's this sudden waking up around 7 o'clock thing?) I send them down to watch TV or play Wii. That will give me another hour (or three depending how hungover I am). I finally get out of bed around 10 o'clock, glare at the overflowing laundry basket, overwhelmed by all the things I think I need to do. I'm already thinking about naptime.

I used to try to tell myself that those hungover mornings were ok because it wasn't every morning. I cringe at the excuses I often offered myself to make the way I drank seem kosher. I feel so desperately sad for that woman. I want to gather her into my arms and lead her out of it, wrap her in a warm sweater and make her whole again. Make her unafraid to be alive again, let her know that she is just fine, just the way she is.

Here in the Sober Days:

7AM      I woke up a little after 5 o'clock. I checked on the boys, came downstairs and made a cup of tea. I've been thinking, writing my daily email to my sober pen pal, and working on my blog. I've got plans to make a grocery list and head out for a run. I feel amazing. Clear, and here. Not wrapped in the smog of a guilt laden hangover. HERE. Available to do things like start laundry, and make breakfast. I don't feel bewildered, I feel like a million bucks. I feel like I am alive. This rocks.

Ten days into my sobriety and I feel like a totally different person. I can actually see, in my mind's eye, my old sad self: a whole separate woman from who I am now. The biggest relief comes from not having to hide anymore, not having to pretend I feel fine when I don't. Not having to act like I didn't have too much to drink last night. Not faking remembering a conversation or something I said or did because in truth I have no idea what you're talking about.

Being sober isn't easy. Hard things never are. But on days like this it's the easiest thing in the world. Just like Sunday morning.

No Deal

There are these deals you make with yourself when you want to quit drinking. There are the promises, the white knuckling through just one more minute. Then the fast trip to the store for wine etc. all the while telling yourself, "Turn the car around. Go home. Go home. Go home. If you don't buy it you can't drink it." But all you can hear is the need. The need to check out, to turn off, to get out of here while you are sitting right here.

My deals would always go something like this: On a hangover day I would decide that I was not going to drink anymore, or if I did I would limit myself to two or three at the most. That would soothe for a few sober days and then it would just feel like time to have some wine. At the store I would buy two bottles and a six or twelve pack of beer. I would have to share with my husband after all, and we wouldn't want to be irresponsible and have to drive to get more if we ran out. (ah, booze logic) I would tell myself it was OK, lots of people drink, lots of people drink too much, and lots of people drink waaaayyyyy more than me. And I wasn't drinking before 5 o'clock or so, and I didn't drink every day. It was fine.

So I would break my deal with myself. I would have not just two or three but seven or eight by the end of the night. And in the morning, hungover and tired and broken again I would make more deals. But it didn't matter what I promised, I was always back at the store.

I've been waking up desperately early excited to start my day. I've been writing this blog and doing yoga every morning. Maybe that's all it takes, maybe it's as simple as finding something else to do that fills you up instead of filling up your cup. It's having a purpose, lifting yourself up to something with tangible soul-full meaning. Being able to face each day proud of the day before instead of cringing when you wake up trying to remember if you made an ass out of yourself last night.

I can't say for sure why this time is different. I know I just got to a point and something clicked inside my soul and I can't undo that now. I know I'm through making deals, I'm ready to walk the walk, talk the talk, do anything it takes to keep this new fragile peace with myself.

Different From You, Same As Me

I might drink just like you- always watching for the last bit, making sure that doesn't happen (unless there's particularly drink-y company over who out drink me and don't know the rule about saving enough for the end of the night since running out before passing out is never a good thing and then my husband then has to go just up the street for overpriced beer). 

You might drink like me- a few in quick succession to start while you cook dinner, sneak outside for a cigarette or two while the kids are parked in front of the TV. Delaying dinner by ten more minutes so you can sneak outside one more time before the whole dinner/bath/stories saga starts and you know you can't just leave in the middle of all that. 

Or you might be a person who has one glass of wine with dinner, or maybe two and not finish the second. I have always wanted to be that person, but that idea fades quickly after I've had the first glass. Mmmmmm. MORE! My head announces, not even pretending to pay attention to logic. Or the children.

I'm starting my fourth day sober today. Last night I told my husband the news that I MUST quit drinking, that I am scared, that I don't want to be this person trapped in a time warp any fucking more. And he was scared, and said "OK" a lot which just pissed me off because I wanted a whole big unnecessary conversation filled with drama and "oh no" and "you don't mean it". He knows me well, and so the conversation was short and sweet, right to the point. He: "Yes, I can see why you think you have a problem. I will support you one hundred percent." Me: "Waaaaa, waaaaa, all you say is OK. Waaaaaaa, waaaaaa." Learning to listen to the other side of conversations will be one benefit of pulling my head from my ass. 

I was thinking this morning that I am a liar, and also an attention junkie. But by liar I mean to myself- I make up all these elaborate excuses and reasons for things to be acceptable to others in my head, although it is totally not necessary. My dramatic behavior (random passionate outbursts, random passionate suggestions for changing things around the house, random fits of anger at the children or my husband- pent up frustration that penetrates days of my life) all to get some kind of attention, anything! To get someone to really notice me and listen to me. (a ha!) Except I'm only me in fits and starts, just someone trying to hide who I am and what I'm doing with some moments of authenticity ever now and again.

Looking forward to today. And scared fucking shitless of it too.