The Round Isn't Over Yet and Neither Are You

Been a weird week; I've kind of had my crazy pants on.  I am still proudly clean and sober, but I feel directionless and very, very afraid most of the time.  I am clinging to the Big Book, or prayer, and my dailies, because I know that no matter how crazy my pants are, I can have the willpower and presence of mind to stay sober, even when the bottle calls.

It's so weird to me that people can drink.  Like, normally.  I see someone order a glass of wine with dinner, and I am fascinated that they can drink only one.  Or even two.  I still get a hitch in my breath and my heart accelerates when I'm near the liquor store I used to frequent, or if I see an ad for liquor, or, okay, if someone even says "wine".  They can even be saying "Ugh, stop your whining," and I'll be all "WINING DID SOMEONE SAY WINING HI HI I LIKE WINE" and half (or more) of me is like YOU TOTALLY WANT THE WINE YOU CAN TOTALLY DRINK NORMALLY OR HELL EVEN JUST DRINK ONE AND THEN STOP AGAIN NO ONE WILL EVER KNOW YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE TO CHANGE YOUR SOBRIETY DATE--

--and then there's the Sober Brie who's like, feet shuffling, Um, Brain?  Hi.  Can I um, say something?  Really fast?  And like, really quietly because I know you have a migraine and I don't want to bug you.  But, um, maybe you shouldn't screech into the liquor store parking lot right now or wine.  But, you can totally whine, don't get me wrong -- But, like maybe this decision isn't based rationally, and you can hate everyone in the world who can normally drink liquor - I think that's fair.  It's like, pry five or six billion people and I really don't think that's hating too much.  So, ahem.  Yeah.  I mean, like, yay!  We're sober!  And okay, I know we're not happy.  And even though we don't feel okay, we ARE okay.  So, like, wine is good but wine will kill you so maybe we should, like, NOT.  Okay, wow.  Thanks for letting me talk!  You may now resume your whining.

So far, my cute little Sober Brain that's all shy and new is the voice I am choosing to listen to - at least, in the end, because I'm here, 76 days later, as dry as whatever that saying is that means I'm totally sober. Usually I yell at and curse my sober brain, but the wealth and depth of creativity my mind has when it comes to profanity is both cool and kind of sad AND SHOULD BE KEPT SECRET.

I know that one glass of wine won't kill me.  But with me, one can never be just one.  And I do not want to have another seizure, or more permanent medical complications from alcoholism.  I do not want the depth and despair that comes from being so out of control I don't know how I can bear to brave another minute alive (or at least conscious).  I never want to feel how SHITTY it is to hear your children downstairs, growing up without you, while you languish upstairs in your drinking and self-pity.  So, is my current day-to-day kind of excruciating at times?  Yes.  But will I take this shitty over the shitty I endured in my addiction?  Oh, hell yes.  A RESOUNDING YES.

I can't ever have another glass of wine.  I can't ever go into a liquor store again, because while you peruse the tequila section, trying to find the brand that won't break the bank but will also impress your friends and also not have you make bad choices that weekend, (free fact fer ya: tequila will ALWAYS end in vomit and regret) in all of those glass bottles - the clear ones, and blue ones, and green ones: in them I found liquid courage.  I found liquid appeasement.  I found liquid apathy, and liquid living-but-not-really-living.  Liquid Thank-God-I-Don't-Remember-Anything-Right-Now and Liquid I-Can't-Remember-Anything-That-Just-Happened-and-I'm-Terrified.  Liquid I-Hate-Myself, Liquid Regret.  Liquid Prison, a kind of death.  I gulped and slugged my way through bottle after bottle, peering into the bottom to see if I had finally found what I was looking for: hope.  Peace.  Respite.  

I didn't find any of those things.

I found: horror.  Pain.  Rejection.

Life is such a wrestle - it is a FIGHT to have a life of meaning and peace and even some joy - and it is WORTH THE WRESTLE.  (Even if you're the worst at arm wrestles.).  Keep fighting.  Keep your head up.  Just stand, before the count of 10.  The round isn't over yet, and neither are you.  And neither am I.

So yeah, I've been wearing some super crazy pants.  I've been chaotic and distracted and sort of all over the place, which really isn't crazy pants for me so much as normal pants - but, even I have perhaps carried all of that to a new level.  But it's okay.  I'm okay.  (Mostly because I'm still sober and I have a really patient support system.)

Because there's always a new tomorrow, there's always a new wrestle worth wrestling at the beginning of each day.  Life can totally be shitty, I know - but please remember that in your addiction, the shit was SO REAL and SO, SO RANK, guys.  Don't go back there.

I will not search for hope, peace, or respite at the bottom of an empty bottle again.  I will fall to my knees in prayer, I will TRY to meditate, (that awesomeness be hella hard) I will call my sponsor, or a sober friend, or my mom, or hell I'll have a giant love-fest with all four of my cats and my blind dog and I'll STAY FREAKING SOBER doing all of this, even though there is nothing even REMOTELY super sad about a 33 year old woman who has sleepovers with her old and blind and diseased animals that involve pillow fights and a great game of Truth or Dare.  (The blind dog never chooses dare.)

I know that life will quiet down.  The normal pants will be washed (but not folded, because let's get real, I don't have that kind of energy) and returned to my closet, and one of these mornings, I'll put them on.  Maybe one day, I will pass the liquor store without putting myself into a hypertensive state.  Maybe, just a little bit more often, I'll find the hope, peace, and respite that I am yearning for.  

All of this is worth the fight.  Crazy pants, normal pants, or no pants.  We got this.