Can’t Remember September

Let’s kick off this sobriety party with an itty-bitty disclaimer: it’s actually September 29. The only word that rhymes with September is “remember,” which is exactly what my drinking prohibited during much of this month. So rather than “Can’t Remember September,” I figured I’d put a positive spin on the spiraling top that is my life and look ahead to the future: “Sober Since October.” There was even a frankenstein blog theme that I debated using, but ultimately decided against due to its all-too-cutesy use of the font Curlz in the title. I’m shooting for sober, not dismissive of typography.

But I digress.

It’s September 29, and I’ve been sober for all of 36 hours. The sobriety app on my phone gives me the benefit of the doubt and chalks it up to two whole days. It seems like a petty accomplishment–like creating a to-do list item for an action that’s already been done. But in those (nearly) two days, I’ve felt like I’ve ripped my heart, mind, soul, and liver out of my body, thrown them on the ground, and pranced around on them wearing my spikiest pair of stilettos. They’re deflated–all of ’em. There’s a lump the size of a large tangerine that’s attached itself to the back of my throat. There’s a sepia filter on everything I look at, preventing me from seeing anything vividly except the truth. I am a full-blown alcoholic, and it’s time to call it quits on the enabler that’s led me down all too many paths of temptation over the last ten years. It’s time to get sober.

“Getting sober” is one of those phrases that I’ve always inwardly rolled my eyes at. Not because of the action itself, but the phrasing just rubs me the wrong way. I dunno, something about it just sounds self-righteous. Or maybe euphemistic. I guess it just doesn’t seem like a strong enough phrase to define what will undoubtedly become the hardest battle of one’s clear-thinking life. It seems more on-point to say something like, “I no longer have to down a pint of 100-proof vodka in order to muster conversation with those I have little to nothing in common with.” Or “I haven’t flailed myself upon the bathroom floor and hyperventilated from an alcohol-induced anxiety attack for X number of days.” I mean, that’s really what getting sober is. It’s pushing yourself to the mental limit for the sake of you and everyone else around you. Or so I’ve read. I wouldn’t know yet… I’ve only been off the juice for 36 hours. (Actually, a Google search for “off the juice” indicates that I’ve misused that term. Don’t fear, friends, I’m not on steroids.)

In my short ten years spent as an alcoholic, the quality of my life has gone downhill faster than a Cedar Point rollercoaster. I’ve gone from being a straight-A student to a two-time college dropout. I’ve gone from being a medal-winning distance runner to gaining a 5-lb. IPA belly ring that I’ll never be rid of.  I’ve consumed more animal byproducts in the form of 3 AM burgers and Animal Style fries than most folks will eat in a lifetime. My skin is speckled with scars brought on by “too-sloshed-to-wash-my-face-tonight” adult acne. I’ve been pulled over for drinking and driving. I’ve lost meaningful friendships. I’ve damaged once-in-a-lifetime relationships. I’ve cried my body weight in tears. I’ve lost a decade of Saturdays and Sundays to hangovers of flu-like magnitude that, if experienced during a workday, would most certainly trigger me to make a doctor’s appointment. I’ve consumed a slew of neon pills and white powders, all to prolong the sweet disconnected feeling of suspended reality. Perhaps most terrifying, I’ve woken up to well-intentioned suicide notes and bottles of prescriptions that I thank God I didn’t have the courage to down in my inebriated stupor. In summation, I have a self-destructive streak that would’ve given Amy Winehouse a run for her money, and I’m starting to scare myself.

At the root of all of this chaos lies one core fact: I have a tendency to be pulled down toward the darkness, whether or not I’ve been drinking. I’ve struggled with varying degrees of anxiety and depression for years. Social situations send me into a spiral, so by sipping chardonnay, I can fend off the crippling sense of insecurity for a few hours until–huge sigh of relief!–it’s time to go home. And then, more often than not, in flood the tears. But as for my depression? It needs not a liquid encourager to rear its ugly head. It appears out of the blue, just to make a quick appearance and then lurk in the shadows until it can crawl out and do the most damage. Some days seem darker than others. I’m not sure why, but they do. Add a case of depressants into the mix, and the demons are unstoppable.

In the midst of all of these clouds, I’ve taken a fond interest in astrology. Now, granted, I strongly believe that my alcoholic tendencies stem my genetically unblessed beginnings (both bio momma and poppa have some dark demons and rap sheets of their own). But the idea that so many of our emotional makings are predetermined by the placements of the stars and planets at our moment of birth? Now, that I find interesting. That being said, I’m always looking to my Pisces sun/Cancer moon combination and, with a fist raised to the heavens above, damning my astrological chart for placing me so smack-dab in the middle of so much self-indulgent Neptunian influence. I also shake my head at my introversion, which makes opening up to others about as easy as opening a tightly-sealed pickle jar. As a creative person, and an introvert, and a Pisces, and a writer who has to have face-to-face contact with others nearly every single day, there should be little wonder that a pint seems so appealing after all is said and done. But, as an alcoholic, there should also be little wonder why I can rarely stop at one.

Is my inability to stop pouring drinks long after my words are slurred and my vision’s blurred utterly predetermined? Or is my alcoholism a product of my own creation–or should I say destruction? I can’t say for certain. I can only say that I have a problem, and I need help.

I started this blog because I’ve been bottling my darkness, my demons, and my heavy emotions inside for far too long. I began writing today with a the proclamation that YES! I want to get sober, but I need to be held accountable for this mega-huge decision. I need support. My greatest fears in “outing” myself are that my friends and family will A) chuckle and shake their heads, reassure me that I’m not really an alcoholic, and ask me to grab a quick Happy Hour drink this week, or B) clap their hands and utter, “FINALLY! What was the ultimate breaking point that made you turn this leaf?” Please, please don’t do either those two things.

I’m inviting you to walk along with me as I prepare my self-will to face temptation head-on. How can you support me? Please offer hugs, not judgment. Please provide guidance, not cynical remarks. I may fall down, but I will get back up.

Because everything I hold dear in life depends upon it.

http://www.buddhadoodles.com/blogs/dailydoodle