Musings At 6 Months Sober

On April 24th of this year, I took my last drink. I didn’t know it at the time, but something had shifted in me while I finished the last of a 6 pack at home. I was surprise picked up from a local bar after imbibing heavily. I was shitfaced. I pretended I wasn’t but NB knew. I suppose it happened during my drunken crusade against everything I love that night, although I don’t remember a damn thing. The following morning it was there waiting for me even though I didn’t expect it to be. The echo of a click that I was unfamiliar with. This feeling took me a long time to name. I still don’t have one word for it. It was kind of a throbbing ache and kind of a sharp stabbing. It was kind of a relief and kind of my worst fucking nightmare.

It was different because I didn’t have a hangover that day, yet I still didn’t remember the majority of my night. The dread I felt is indescribable. The discomfort I felt was palpable. The knowledge that I was not living up to the person I knew I could be was lying in front of me, writhing around. It was the truth that had been waiting for me for years. With every sip, every shot and every morning after, it remained the same. I had kept my eyes so tightly shut in fear of how hard it would be to execute what I knew in my head and heart I absolutely had to do. I had to stop drinking. Forever. The truth is that every hour I spent drinking I spiralled further into oblivion. I was leaning in to my pain but not in the way I needed to be, not in a healthy or productive way. I was leaning in to wanting to die. I have always struggled with depression and more recently have been working on it in an honest way, but when I was drinking all my attempts at self-love/self-improvement were a fucking joke. I wanted to die because I thought it would be easier than what I was going through. I was leaning in to self-pity and self-sabotage because I wasn’t getting ‘my way’. I wanted it to stop, or for someone to save me, or for something to distract me long enough that I could find a new life and start all over again. The good news is all those things did happen, just not in the way I expected them to.

It did stop. The relentless cycle of being hurt, drinking to forget/numb out, waking up apologetic/filled with shame and then starting back at the beginning (whether it was the morning after or the weekend after). It stopped when I realized I was in a hamster wheel with all my regret and missed opportunity and until I ceased running I would never get free. It stopped when I admitted (out loud) that I hated myself and I hated being drunk and that I had to fucking change. It stopped when I accepted that alcohol was prohibiting me from moving forward. Alcohol was prohibiting me from growing up. It stopped when I admitted I was done blaming my problems on life/work/boys/girls/Mother Dearest/whatever else. It stopped when I admitted I was living a big fat lie.

I was saved. Not by any version of a god or Jesus. Not even by a cute boy who kinda looks like Jesus. Not by rehab or medication or AA. I don’t do the god thing, I don’t have faith in a HP and I don’t feel like less-than without one, but my recovery has certainly looked different because of it. I was in love with a man when I got sober and he played a huge part in this path but he didn’t do this for me, either. I wanted to go to rehab because I thought it would make my problem seem more real (whatever the fuck that means) and I didn’t go because of money and the idea of taking a month off work. I’m kinda glad I didn’t in the end. I’m proud that I was able to do this the way I have. I found a lovely therapist in recovery, but she didn’t save me either (she certainly helps, though). I am on no medication and I don’t swear by a program or a system. I wasn’t saved by anything specific, rather by everything all at once. I saved myself somehow. I dug deep and stopped being a fucking brat; that’s what it came down to for me. I had to stop acting like the world owed me an easy way out. I had to stop acting like I was the only person who was in pain. This is just what my journey looked like, although I know everyone’s is different.

I did find a new life. It is incredibly full but with holes of who I used to be punched through it. These holes are in the shapes of lost loves; cigarettes, alcohol, NB, my depression. It is exhausting and scary. It is also ridiculous and hilarious. I am so filled with gratitude that I’m 100% certain most of my friends now want to puke whenever I start talking about it, but I don’t give a shit! I am thankful and humbled and terrified and all the good/bad things. It can be non-stop which is when it gets taxing. It has two no-longer-tiny kittens in it that make me want to scream from cuteness and frustration. It has a best friend/Roomie that I actually get to be there for and with whom I share a one-in-a-million connection. It has a 1 month old niece that I can get to know and love and who will be in my life forever. This life has meaning even though it fucking hurts sometimes. This life has purpose even though I don’t always know what it is. This life is honest even when my once-addicted brain tries to lie to me.

I had to start all over again. I had no choice. Roomie calls this the ‘overhaul’. I had to reset my brain; all my coping mechanisms, all my misdirected love, all my not-good-enough thoughts. It wasn’t easy and it still isn’t. I think for the first few months I was so awed by my rawness that I just went along with whatever my brain was doing. I cried a lot, I ate a lot, I slept a lot. Now that it’s less fresh, my brain has begun to fight back; which can be alarming at times. My depression has resurged in a floating/looming way but hasn’t touched down fully yet. I’m anticipating this and it petrifies me. I have started eating regularly and running every other day and with that my self-esteem has plummeted from the weight gain; even though I’m told I look fantastic I still feel fat and unattractive. I guess it comes with the territory, all this change can be uncomfortable. I work on these new insecurities daily.

I’ve just begun to recognize the woman I am, as me. I’m starting to know what I like and what I don’t like. I’m learning what is too much for me and what is not enough. I laugh so much now that I can’t control it; this was a foreign thing to me 6 months ago. I feel like I have so much more to learn about myself and the world around me AND the acceptance of that undertaking genuinely excites me. I do get sad often; about my lost life, about Mother Dearest, about NB, about the time I spent pushing this life away from me, but I can’t explain how incredible it feels to also know that I am so fucking lucky to be where I am today.

Ultimately all I can do is take this life as it happens. Sounds overly simplistic doesn’t it? It isn’t. It’s fucking hard. It’s hard to surrender to it all, every day. Let things humble me, every day. Let people in with the knowledge they will probably hurt me, every day. Let the bad and the good wash over me and then trickle away, every day. It’s hard but it’s worth it and that’s why I do it. That’s why we all do it. Everybody following this path knows that we’re ‘on to something’.  We may be green and raw, we may be scared and lost, but we are warriors and we are unfuckwithable. 

Advertisements

Nothing To Report/Wah-Wah-Wah.

No epiphanies while trekking home from work. No ‘thank fuck I’m sober’ seconds while pouring beers for my friends. No ‘grateful for the pain’ moments. I’ve had a lot of shit running through my head and heart this week. I’ve had tidal waves of ‘oh fuck’s all day. That’s not the kind of emotion I’d like to be swimming in. But that’s what I got anyway, so I’m here to bitch about it because I feel god damned defeated by it.

I yelled at Y at work today. I signed out 2 hours before I realized I was still ‘finishing up’ the schedule. I sat with three people I quite enjoy and poured them beers while obsessing over my fight with Y, the schedule for Sept 11th-17th, and the fact that if I wasn’t careful I could just as easily pour myself a beer. I could even drink it. It’s not that I wanted a drink necessarily. I wasn’t even tempted, not really. It was that I could have been lost in my thoughts, poured a beer and sipped it without thinking twice. Something I have done many-a-times in that exact same seat. It was that I would probably sigh with relief after ‘accidentally’ doing so. I would probably say something like ‘oh man, what difference could one drink make’? And that would be the beginning of a dark chapter. Maybe (probably) the final chapter. One drink could turn into one night, one night into one week, and one week into one lifetime; however long it would last. I am certain of that. I despise that. Yet I know how easy it is to get back to that.

Those are the minutes that make me realize the addict is still very much awake in me. She’ll probably never go to sleep again. She’s got one eye open waiting for Sober Lana to give in and pass the fuck out. It’s horrifying to accept this, especially when I feel so good about the time I’ve clocked. Especially when I feel like I deserve a pat on the back. A ‘go me!’ day. Some recognition that staying clean/sober/honest will probably be my life’s work. Some acknowledgment of how terrifying and difficult and brave that undertaking is. But instead I get shitty demanding guests to placate and fawn over. I get the normally totally sweet regulars being pervy and weird. I get the support system I adore and rely on being cunty and unavailable. Such is life, friends, I had better get used to it, right?

Wrong. I can’t get used to the idea that I can never drink again. I can’t get used to how lucky I am I stopped when I did. I can’t get used to the fact that life dealt me a hand I don’t quite know how to play. I can’t get used to any of this. Not ever. I can’t get used to how much trust my bosses and co-workers have put in me to run the restaurant. I can’t get used to the outpouring of love and support I get from the community I’ve found myself in. I also can’t get used to the gaping hole in my chest that NB left. I can’t get used to the shocking cold of rejection and abandonment that washes over me whenever I’m reminded that what I once had will never be, again.

Maybe I’m not supposed to get used to any of this. It’s all supposed to sting like fifty-thousand tiny fucking paper cuts whenever it gets brought up, right? I’m supposed to cry every time I face the reality that things aren’t fair and nothing feels real or good or fine or welcoming, right? What am I supposed to be doing with all these internal WTFs? Somebody fucking tell me, cause I’m fed up. I wanted to have a life affirming chat with MD before she got shipped off to celebrity rehab and instead I got a superficial convo about her mink smoking jacket being hemmed (not kidding). I got my sister informing me not to tell any of the family about MD’s little ‘trip’. Sure, universe, whatever you think is relevant. I wanted to have a light work day that ended early and went by quickly and instead I got a day that passed like a visit to the fucking dentist. A day that ended 3 hours after it should have which meant that I missed my meeting (Sober Agnostics). I got home from my hell day feeling insecure and crying only to deal with SATAN’S KITTENS all bloody night. And to top it off, I can’t sleep. Alright, universe, whatever you fucking want. As long as this is how it’s supposed to be I’ll accept it. Wait a second, no, FUCK THAT. Fuck all of this.

Fuck today.
Fuck work.
Fuck beer.
Fuck MD.
Fuck NB.
Fuck the cats.
Fuck insomnia.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck.

You win, universe. Give me a fucking break now, kay?

123 Days

I am four months sober, as of this week. Aren’t you proud of me? I’m proud of myself, most of the time. Well, some of the time. Okay, so I was proud of myself for a few minutes and then felt like an ugly naked dying thing all over again. I’m also at 3 weeks without cigarettes, which I don’t seem to miss nearly as much as I thought I would. I guess giving up my two great loves (booze and Not-Boyfriend) made giving up a third no big deal. Anyhow, I’m a wreck. I don’t know what’s going on, or maybe I do? I just finished reading Augusten Burroughs’ memoir, Dry. Jeez Louise it’s a doozy! I cried like a little bitch. It got me thinking about NB, and about my mother, and about Roomie and Y and all these people who I love/hate/love, who saw me drunk and who saw me sober. It got me thinking about what inside me is really hurting. It got me thinking about AA and about sobriety toolboxes and about relapse. It got me to wake Spock and Squid from their post-neutering slumber and kiss them both with the stupid cones of shame still around their necks. I’m still congested from the tears. I don’t know how to articulate most of this so I’m going to write whatever comes up and see how it reads another day…

Mother Dearest is going to rehab. She is being admitted this coming Tuesday. This means she’ll be in treatment for her birthday, September 9th. There’s something wildly depressing with that realization. This is her first time doing anything of this sort. This is her first time speaking (somewhat) openly about her addiction. This is the first time I’ve ever felt any strong emotion other than hatred/resentment/disgust towards her. I feel like my sobriety may have impacted her decision. I wonder every day if that is a conceited and ugly thing to think. I ache for my dad to comfort me on my strange shaky days, although I’m sure he has his hands full with her, something he would never let on either way. I want to know MD, as a sober person (not just as a mom), but I also fear that she won’t be able to do this. I want her to feel all of the floaty feelings I felt in my first 90 days but also know that her struggle was lengthy and completely different from mine. I want her to have hope. I keep saying this to her, as if somehow it’ll magically make what’s about to happen less terrifying. I have no idea what’s about to happen to her insides, physically or emotionally. She’s been drunk every time I’ve spoken to her since she sent the email to us about her decision. I haven’t berated or ignored her, although that would have been my instinct before. I just listen and respond when necessary, in neither a good nor bad way. I want to know that she’ll get through this, and be better for it. Some hidden corner of my psyche worries that she’ll kill herself once she’s sober, realizing how much of her life has been wasted or how much damage drinking has done to herself and to us. She was always the drama queen of our family. I’m happy for her though, too. Quitting drinking has been the most transformative decision I’ve ever made, I know it will be for her as well, if she lets it.

I went out with that guy, the super fit one from work. 3 times. He’s sweet. We’ll call him M. He’s my age. He’s friendly. He’s honest. He’s single. We went to the art gallery had some lunch and then took his dog for a walk on our first date, went to a baseball game on our second, and went to the park on our third. He waited until the third to kiss me, and it was fine. I say fine with a solemn shrug. He’s so lovely and open and happy. It’s fucking creepy how happy he is. Like wakes-up-in-the-morning-smiling happy. Weird right? It’s refreshing, but I think I knew it would be the downfall of whatever went on between us, I’m quite certain (as of how I’ve felt for the past 48 hours) that nothing will continue from this point forward. Maybe not for any other reason than it being too soon. It’s too much. Too much pressure. Too much pretending that my heart isn’t in 1500 pieces. I went from finally finding some solid ground in my sobriety to realizing that introducing even one new thing/person/whatever could bring my recovery to a screeching halt. I looked at my sobriety clock(s) every single day this week, that can’t be a coincidence. I did it to remind myself of how far I’ve come and that one slip up will cost me so SO much. I’ve also looked up AA meetings in my area everyday since I gave him my number. Probably not a coincidence either, right? Also, let me be clear, none of this is on him. He isn’t a drinker or an enabler, nor has he done anything wrong. He’s wonderful, I’m just not ready. That’s all it comes down to.

I’m also kidding myself if I think I’ve done all the work necessary to heal the trauma from the end of the relationship with NB. I literally flinch when I think about him, I’d say that’s nowhere near ‘over it’. I bailed on some fancy dinner/date plans with M last night because I felt overwhelmed by the whole week and that made me certain that I’m going to have to tell him how I’m feeling and cut him off romantically. Now I understand why all the programs (12 steps or not) tell you no big life changes for your first year of sobriety. I mean, I still haven’t been to a meeting, but I keep reading about them! I do plan on going on Tuesday (how funny that it’s the same day MD is being carted off) to a Sober Agnostics meeting. I’m nervous but also looking forward to it in a way. I want to find my tribe. I’m beginning to understand the importance of having a support system.

I feel more connected than ever to Roomie, who is going through a mind fuck of a time too, so I’m trying my best to be present and available for her. I’m actually happy to drop what I’m doing to sit outside and listen attentively while she chain smokes through her life’s problems. Yesterday after I bailed on M’s mysterious fancy plans I felt like a total sack of shit and wanted nothing more than to lie on the couch and drink coffee and mope into my book. Instead I got sucked into the house cleaning party of 2017. We cleaned out our closets, literally. I threw over 50% of my wardrobe into a donation bin. Even some newer/much-loved items got tossed solely because just looking at them salted NB wounds. I scrubbed the bathroom from floor to ceiling with vinegar and bleach. I swept and mopped upstairs and vacuumed downstairs. I gave Roomie my ill-fitting and much hated dressers and vowed to shop for better ones this coming week. I washed my sheets, my towels, and all my dirty clothes. I purged everything that served no purpose to me. I purged the shit I’ve been holding on to that no longer does anything but make me fucking sad. Roomie did the same, all through which we drank non-alcoholic beers/many flavours of LaCroix, blasted stadium country and crappy dance music, and sweat through our ratty t-shirts. It was tiresome work but it felt fucking fantastic.

Here’s the short list of all the other things I’ve been doing that are really really helping me through the not-so-great days,

  • Therapy as much as possible, which is, at best, once a week.
  • Sleeping, as early or as late as I want.
  • Meditating, absolutely without a doubt every damn day.
  • Laughing, at myself and others, but in a nice way.
  • Hugging, everyone I love that is available.
  • Finishing my to-do list, even when I feel like being a hermit.
  • All the mani/pedis a girl can get, cause who doesn’t love pampering?
  • Quality coffee drinking, duh.
  • Quality pastry eating, double duh.
  • Kitsilano roaming/window shopping.
  • Clay face masking, every other day.
  • Purchasing upwards of 10 (kitten safe) plants, happily staying up too late repotting/rehoming.
  • Intense reading marathons.
  • Watching god awful movies with Roomie every Wednesday night.
  • Eating unapologetic amounts of whatever-the-fuck I-want. Coconut Bliss ice cream is like crack in this house.
  • Fancy tea buying/drinking.
  • Crossword/sudoku hoarding.
  • Lingerie buying.
  • Book ordering via Amazon Prime.
  • Instagramming.

Basically I just do whatever the fuck I feel like doing as long as it isn’t harmful to me or my sobriety. It’s foolproof in my worst spells of the blues. I’m exhausted and it’s bed time, but I wanted to check in and send my love and gratitude and awkward-and-weird-everything-is-nuts vibes out into the WordPress world. Be well, all of you xo