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Breaking my ankle put me in a position that I hadn't been in a long time: helpless, depending on others, and often, alone. My old friend alcohol returned (and the occasional session of over-eating followed by vomiting, as I was UNABLE to ... silly addict!). I was high most of the time and miming my way through each day. Still blogging like everything was OK or giving only slight glimpses into the hell my life really was. I'd become what I hated: another hypocritical inspirational writer — until, inevitably, the bottom fell completely out ... again.
Post-Op Week 39: Catharsis or On Falling Up
Thursday, Nov. 12, 2009: What is there to say? I fucked up majorly? Whenever I write. I try to come from the most honest place possible. Even if it hurts. Even when I feel vulnerable because I'm realizing when I don't (even unintentionally), I self-destruct in some way. I implode. Sometimes I explode. It's the silence, the keeping of secrets, that my spirit rebels against. Whatever the vice — if you put it before yourself, you're guaranteed nothing but pain and misery.
Without having to reveal the sordid details, I will say my sobriety came apart at the seams this weekend. It had been unraveling for a minute, just didn't want to acknowledge it due to my actions/inactions. I have to search the reasons within my spirit ... and hopefully be strong enough to remedy them. Scratch that. I am strong. I know this. Always have been. It's my survival instinct. What I need is the willingness and the ability to let go of the belief that I'm "on top" of it all. Let go of the fear of asking for what I need in some cases or demanding it in other cases and not settling for bullshit because I devalue myself when I settle.
Damn. It's all I can say.
I'm not sleeping well, but it'll get better. I cannot use my old coping mechanisms. This is a fact. But it's one second at a time right now. Soon it will be one minute, hour, 1/4 day, 1/2 day, a day.
I'm grateful for that: the ability to start all over again, and finally KNOWING I can't do it alone.
New clean date: 11/10/2009
A few of the sordid details: At 7:18 a.m. — 11/10/2009 — I woke up in the Regency Inn off Tyvola Road. I was a mess and had no earthly clue as to how I'd come to where I was. Like a thunderbolt I was struck with the reality that my son needed to go to school, and that I'd slipped out through the night leaving him with my mother while he was sleeping.
Shame washed over me blazing hot. My hands shook as I dialed my voice mail. "Mom where are you?" I could have died; I wanted to badly. I would later find out that I'd attempted to take my own life by pulling in front of a bus the night before — and then blacked out.
I was sick — sick of me, sick of life and was trying to take the easy way out. I wanted to kill myself "accidentally." I hated who I was, and hated who I had become. When all hope was lost, I became willing to really change because deep inside I didn't want to die; I just didn't want to hurt. So on Nov. 10, 2009, I began my journey into recovery, 12 steps, slogans and all. The weight, the chemicals, and my other unhealthy behaviors were all just symptoms of my disease. My addiction.
I struggled with letting go of all the old lies, feeling like I had to be OK, I had to be the ray of hope for all the world, instead of just being regular-ass me. As I worked my program and continued to take an honest look at myself, my shit, and choose to act in different ways than the ones that kept me insane, I started to feel better about me. Do not mistake this for a happy ending. Tomorrow never comes, and the work waits. I can only stay clean and live clean or today. What's great is ... I finished my blog! I continued until, at last, a full year had passed. With a sound body and a sounder mind, I made my last entry on 2/19/2010 — a year to the day I had the surgery that would completely change my life.