Vimmy and Vigory

I had a meltdown last night.  Actually, it wasn't me.  It wasn't the true Me that had a toddler-inspired meltdown.  It was the baby brain in me that knows the gig is up and that little brat started acting up when I told Craig it was time that I go back to an alcohol free life.  Ooh, and she was in a mood last night.  She spewed jealousy and accusations at my husband.  She cried about how helpless and alone she felt.  She was over stimulated, tired, and just needed a nap.  I'm not going to lie, I confuse her.  You see, as I was explaining to my husband that I think I'm done with the booze, I had a glass of wine in my hand.  What do toddlers with no boundaries turn into?  Blubbering brats.  

I also haven't committed to a 100% alcohol free life.  That scares the hell out of me.  I am committing to exploring my life AF.  I am committing to giving it enough time to see how these meds work without the influence of alcohol.  Because I have a sneaking suspicion that alcohol and SSRI's are not a good mix.  I like to think I'm an intelligent person, so when I say "sneaking suspicion," what I really mean is that I'm kind of still in denial and I'm scared shitless of what lies ahead.  There's only one way to find out.

I would also like to state, loudly and proudly, that I will start on Monday.  But as I puff up my chest to yell from the rooftops that I'm almost done with booze, I lose my steam.  Why?  Because I have had so many start days that came and went with a beer in my hand.  I'm starting to lose my footing.  BUT, I also know it only takes one day, and then another one, and a few more before my confidence collides with my footing and I'm standing tall and proud.  I just have to get there...

So why not start today?  Because I'm afraid of feeling any kind of discomfort from withdrawals.  I know I'm not in danger of major withdrawals that require doctor supervision, but just enough to cause a sleepless night or two and a few peaks of anxiety.  Pretty much how I've been living for the last 5 months or so.  Maybe I'm making up excuses.  Or maybe I recognize that my body and mind have already been through so much that a little comfort and self-compassion is needed.  Self-compassion by nursing a toxic poison... the insanity.  

Last time I quit, back in 2020, I did so with vim and vigor.  (I have never actually used that phrase, vim and vigor,  in my writing before.  I like it.)   This time, though, is different.  I don't know why.  Sure, a lot of the quit lit I'm re-reading is inspiring and gives me a quick kick in the ass, but I'm dragging that ass.  Maybe it's because I'm not the same as I was in 2020.  Peri has become an excuse for just about everything that is wrong in my life these days, but it's a solid excuse.   My mom told me of a coworker she worked with several years ago.  She had crippling anxiety and depression, complained about menopause, and one day didn't show up for work.  She committed suicide.  My sister had a patient who was going through the whirlwind of peri, working with doctors who know nothing about our hormones at this stage of our lives, and tried to shoot herself in the head.  She didn't miss, but she didn't die, either.  She laid in a vegetative state until her only son made the decision to stop life support.  Not to mention all the marriages that fall apart during this time of a woman's life.  All the careers that are left behind because we just can't manage.   All the addictions that begin or resurface.  So yeah, I think peri is a pretty viable reason to acknowledge the fact that I am not as vimmy or vigory as I was a few years back.  I accept that.