Boxed Brownies and Wrinkles



This is not a cry for help.  This is a true account, or the truth according to me, about the depression that comes in suffocating waves while drinking.  While drinking on antidepressants.  While drinking on antidepressants during the hormonal upheaval of perimenopause.  While drinking on antidepressants during the hormonal upheaval of perimenopause while suffering from severe insomnia.  This is HARD.  But I know, without a doubt, that alcohol is not only not helping me, it is causing detrimental side effects to my physical, mental, and spiritual health.  I mean, I always knew that, but now it seems to be amplified 1000%.  And we can't have that, now can we?  I have to be a mother, a wife, a sister, a teacher, a daughter.  I have to do the laundry and keep the floors clean and wipe the crumbs off the counter.  I have to buy the lavender candles whenever a storm is coming because the smell of a desert rain and lavender is intoxicating in all the right ways.  I have to make the bed and water the house plants and get exercise.  I have to make sure I'm eating healthy and taking my medication and vitamins and minerals.  Not to mention getting my youngest to and from his friends' houses and school and his girlfriend's.  I have to attempt a conversation with a 17 year old son who rarely says more than a grunty "good," but when he does stick around and talk, even just about sports (which I know very little about), I light up because there is a beautiful young man behind the shrugs and the grunts.  I have to do my hair and my makeup, I have to get to my local Trader Joe's to buy flowers because for some reason, albeit the parking lots at all Trader Joe's, TJ's always brighten my day a bit.  I have to juice fresh ginger for a spicy treat and drink my Reishi mushroom tea, I have to make sure I get enough protein and complex carbs and very little sugar.  I have to dream just enough, but not too much, about someday traveling abroad.  Preferably alone.  I have to worry about my libido, or lack thereof, because although I could care less, I know it impacts my husband.  I have to worry about my mom's memory issues and my sister's struggles with her ex-husband and whether or not my dog is getting enough exercise.  I have to wash my car of the never-ending desert dust because I love my little car and I want her to stay shiny and clean.  I have to embrace the wrinkles that are staking their ground between, around, and under my eyes because I don't have time, patience, or disposable income to give too many shits about the inevitable aging process.  I have to miss my father dearly when I am feeling low and alone and I have to celebrate him on his birthday, my parent's anniversary, and the day fucking cancer took him from us.  I have to reach out to friends sometimes just to say hi and maybe grab a coffee.  I have to plan for Easter dinner and Thanksgiving and I have to hold on tight to what little German Christmas traditions still exist from my childhood.  I have to make my morning tea with fresh squeezed lemon juice from our lemon tree by the front door.  And I occasionally have to make my kids boxed brownies because they love them and I love the way the aroma of warm chocolate makes the house smell.  

So you see, the side effects of alcohol have got to go.  Because I can't possibly get to everything I have to do.  

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