God,
The other day someone in a private conversation asked me this, “how do you know you’re an alcoholic because you don’t seem like one?” Fair enough, I thought. You can’t judge a book but it’s cover, right? And I am pretty secretive, especially about my drinking. Well I’m going to try to explain this to my new friends with your guidance of course.
I had my first drink when I was either 11, 12 or 13. Something in that range. That’s early but I didn’t know then I had a problem. In my twenties I started to think, in the background somewhere, maybe, just maybe, I have a problem but not until my late thirties did things finally start to reach a head.
My family was moved to Atlanta in 2008 for my husband’s job. I went screaming and kicking. I was quite settled in Raleigh, NC and didn’t want to go but you gotta follow the gravy train. We set up camp in a nice enough neighborhood and I got to business finding the most serious drinkers I have ever come across in my life. Within six months of moving here, I started my year and a half-long dedication to at least four hangovers a week. That was the period that kind of opened my eyes but I still didn’t do anything about it then.
During this time of hard regular drinking, I was (and still am) a stay-at-home mom. I would wake up and stumble around through the morning routine, hoping the kids didn’t notice that I couldn’t even open my eyes completely. My days were spent telling myself how horrible I was, how much I hated where I lived, saying that I would swear off drinking once and for all, looking for jobs on the Internet, napping and exercising the drink out of my dry pores. My only friends were drinking buddies and believe me they did not have my best intentions at heart. My husband wanted nothing to do with me, and the kids wanted to be where their friends were, where luck would have it, was also where my wine was.
I’m not like a bum drunk who lived on the street, asking for spare change. I never lost my house, my marriage or the kids. I’m still pretty sure not all the neighbors know about my recovery. But I’m a bonafide drunk, class A alcoholic, obsessed with the drink, can’t say no to one, have to have way too many, gotta make a mess of things, especially myself. I also like pills.
Like I said it wasn’t that research period of a year and a half that got me screaming, “I give, I give.” But what it did do was enable me to reel it in somewhat and make a deal with myself (all alcoholic’s do this wheeling and dealing). It was, if I start counting my hangovers again, then I’ll admit defeat. And that’s what happened. I started counting hangovers again and within a year, I was back up to two to a week. And when I did go all out drinking, the hangovers got worse and worse. They were crippling. I knew my ass was kicked, especially at the family reunion. Of course, right? Gotta go out in style. More on that later.
But, I’m sober now, seven months today a matter of fact, and it ain’t easy. BUT it’s better than that hellacious past I just told you about. That was hell. Thank GOD, HE led me to a special group of people that all are sober.
Peace out peeps! Until later.
The other day someone in a private conversation asked me this, “how do you know you’re an alcoholic because you don’t seem like one?” Fair enough, I thought. You can’t judge a book but it’s cover, right? And I am pretty secretive, especially about my drinking. Well I’m going to try to explain this to my new friends with your guidance of course.
I had my first drink when I was either 11, 12 or 13. Something in that range. That’s early but I didn’t know then I had a problem. In my twenties I started to think, in the background somewhere, maybe, just maybe, I have a problem but not until my late thirties did things finally start to reach a head.
My family was moved to Atlanta in 2008 for my husband’s job. I went screaming and kicking. I was quite settled in Raleigh, NC and didn’t want to go but you gotta follow the gravy train. We set up camp in a nice enough neighborhood and I got to business finding the most serious drinkers I have ever come across in my life. Within six months of moving here, I started my year and a half-long dedication to at least four hangovers a week. That was the period that kind of opened my eyes but I still didn’t do anything about it then.
During this time of hard regular drinking, I was (and still am) a stay-at-home mom. I would wake up and stumble around through the morning routine, hoping the kids didn’t notice that I couldn’t even open my eyes completely. My days were spent telling myself how horrible I was, how much I hated where I lived, saying that I would swear off drinking once and for all, looking for jobs on the Internet, napping and exercising the drink out of my dry pores. My only friends were drinking buddies and believe me they did not have my best intentions at heart. My husband wanted nothing to do with me, and the kids wanted to be where their friends were, where luck would have it, was also where my wine was.
I’m not like a bum drunk who lived on the street, asking for spare change. I never lost my house, my marriage or the kids. I’m still pretty sure not all the neighbors know about my recovery. But I’m a bonafide drunk, class A alcoholic, obsessed with the drink, can’t say no to one, have to have way too many, gotta make a mess of things, especially myself. I also like pills.
Like I said it wasn’t that research period of a year and a half that got me screaming, “I give, I give.” But what it did do was enable me to reel it in somewhat and make a deal with myself (all alcoholic’s do this wheeling and dealing). It was, if I start counting my hangovers again, then I’ll admit defeat. And that’s what happened. I started counting hangovers again and within a year, I was back up to two to a week. And when I did go all out drinking, the hangovers got worse and worse. They were crippling. I knew my ass was kicked, especially at the family reunion. Of course, right? Gotta go out in style. More on that later.
But, I’m sober now, seven months today a matter of fact, and it ain’t easy. BUT it’s better than that hellacious past I just told you about. That was hell. Thank GOD, HE led me to a special group of people that all are sober.
Peace out peeps! Until later.
3 comments:
So I read that and thought- WHAT!? How could you hate Atlanta?? I would give anything to go back! And then I realized...there are people who would say the exact same thing about where I live now. And you know all too well that I was in the same boat when we left NC.
So do you think it's fine to have coping mechanisms as long as they don't cross the line into affecting our ability to function in the world, or do you think that a healthy relationship with God means we don't need anything but him to cope?
I think drawing the line at being able to function in the world is a good predictor of whether or not a coping mechanism is healthy or not. But I also do think we are supposed to depend of God with every fiber of our being.
For me though in this sober journey, that's really effing hard. I have to give it up to God about 300 times a day. It's like playing tug-of-war with Him. Here take it, no give it back I want to wallow in self-pity, no take it away, give it back!
My coping mechanisms tend to air on the self-destructive side and I do know that God doesn't want me to hurt myself. He wants me to do his will. I just wish sometimes he would mail me a letter with his will spelled out for me.
I feel so much closer to you reading your blog, which, to me, is exactly what a great blog does. You've got excellent illustrative skills, taking the reader into your mind and scenes that you want us to see, with humor and grace and a lovable humility. Thanks for sharing!
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