Living and Loving Out Loud

 Here I am again.  Lying in bed exhausted, puffy, bloodshot eyes, with a tightness at my heart.  I've been here before.  So many of us have been here before.  And for what?  What the fuck is the purpose of drinking?  I gain absolutely nothing, except if you count that brief moment of feeling "normal."  But I don't want that kind of normal.  I want the kind of normal with shiny eyes and glowing skin.  The kind of normal that screams, "I am a badass.  You can keep your fucking poison; I'm raw dogging this life!"  But I'm not there, yet.  YET.  I'm getting angry now.  I'm stuck and I can't get out.  I'm afraid to quit cold turkey and tapering seems to be a painful and slow death.  Over and over and over again.  I don't sleep.  I don't exercise.  I have cellulite above my kneecaps and up my thighs.  This is not me.  THIS IS NOT ME!  I think that's all I have to say today. ...

I could sit here and write about all the ways I am disrespected by my husband and my youngest son.  I can rant and rave and rage against the trials of living in a house of testosterone or how hard it is to be so sensitive and misunderstood by my own family.  (Although, I suspect my youngest son is a lot like me, he just doesn't know it yet.  I hope he recognizes his sensitivity soon; ignoring it just leads to a pretty sad life.  I know.)   But I don't want to bash my family because I do love them.  It's just so HARD sometimes. I'm sitting here in a hotel room right now typing this post.  I packed a bag Monday afternoon, after some convincing from my sister, told my family I loved them, and left.  I don't know what to expect when I get home.  What I do know is that having my own space, all clean and uncluttered with no dishes or laundry to do, has been therapeutic beyond belief.  There are no moments of tiptoeing around wondering if ...

I am almost home.  Just around the corner, down the street, to the door.  I am coming home.  I woke up to peace two days ago.  The peace that comes with the knowing that it is the end.  The end of discomfort, the end of loss, the end of being lost.  It's the peace in the exhale, the peace in the reflection of my eyes, the knowing.  I know, with all of my heart, that I am done.  That I can lay these past few months to rest because I am ready to move on.  I am ready.  Thank you, my dear inner girl, for being so patient.  And thank you, my beautiful body, for never leaving me alone, for working over time to make up for the damage I have put you through.   In two days, I will have come to the end of a taper schedule that I have been comfortable with.  In two days, I will wake up a non-drinker.  There is a lightness in my decision that I didn't trust would come.  But a part of me did trust that it will come becau...

I feel like I'm dying.  Not physically, but emotionally, spiritually, motherly.  This shit is keeping me so isolated.  Away from my children, my sister, my mother.  Oddly enough, it seems to make me feel connected to my husband.  Maybe he feels differently.  I don't know.  I haven't asked.  This poison is so much more than a simple substance.  It's a poison that throws a dark shadow on our lives, our hearts, our BEINGS.  Yet I can't imagine an afternoon, often times a morning, without it.  But I can see the ME without it  and she's beautiful.  Shiny and free and clean.  I just can't seem to get back to her...yet.  I'll get there, I just never imagined it would be this much of a struggle.  

I haven't been keeping up on my writing, which for me, is like saying I haven't been keeping up with my therapy.  Just like therapy, when things are going well, we don't feel like we need it.  But I do need it, I know I do.  I have been successfully tapering where in a few days I will feel comfortable taking the big leap.  And this is where it gets tricky.  This is where the lies, that are so convincing and justifying, become so real.  If I could stay within my limits the past few days, and, if I actually don't want more beyond my limit, what's the big deal?  Sure, there are times when I think that I could have one more, but then I feel gross and I know I would regret it.  There's no other regret that's worse than letting yourself down.  Because if you could let yourself down, how can you trust yourself to not let others down?   I know it's only been a couple of days, but I feel good.  I lay my head down at night looking forwar...

Was this weekend my rock bottom?  I don't know and I honestly don't think it matters.  For all I know, it was a launching pad into my beautiful future.  An ugly, messy, painful, and hurtful launching pad, but a solid step in the right direction.  It was a weekend where I ran away.  I saw, with such clarity, the chaos I was causing my family, particularly my 16-year-old son.  So I booked a local hotel room, grabbed an Uber, and disappeared for about 20 hours.  Not a very dignified Mom move.  I couldn't stand the anger and maybe fear in my son's eyes on Friday.  The disgust I felt for myself.  His words: "You're a fucking drunk."  Those words right there; they aren't me, they are alcohol.  Alcohol is the fucking drunk.  I know, it doesn't make much sense, but I'm not a fucking drunk.  I am a mother who is struggling, a woman who wants to return to herself, to nurture my children through their adolescent years, to love m...