Eleven months and two days sober.
So close to a year of sobriety that I can taste it. Yet, wine, bourbon, vodka, I can taste all those things too.
I’ve been on a roller-coaster. Emotionally and mentally. I want to get off this ride and check out. I’ve spent a very good amount of time this week thinking about drinking. Imagining what and where, and how good it would taste and feel. And then I get to the ugly part. I think about the trips and falls, the black outs, the statements that I won’t remember making, the things I’ll lose, the money down the toilet, and this whole almost-year clean and sober – all for naught.
Instead of drinking (or smoking a cigarette–I’ve been off those little suckers for 81 days today!) I stay home, by myself and isolate. I hadn’t been to a meeting in six days until last night. I used the justification that I had to care for Lars for the first few meetings I missed, totally valid, but as the week went on and Lars became more stable, it seemed that it was me that started to lose it.
I didn’t want to do anything. I just lay in bed or on the couch, watching Netflix. Forgetting the world, without really forgetting a thing.
I hate being alone and I love it. It’s a sick, sick thing. The more I isolate, the more I want to just live in this lonely hole forever, never to emerge again. And, simultaneously, I am furious that no one has come for me, angry that I have no one who cares enough to drag me out of this dark, lonely place.
It’s alcoholism. It’s the disease at work. Knowing that if it keeps me away from everyone, angry and alone, eventually, I’ll cave. Eventually, I will go out and buy that bottle of wine or bourbon. Eventually, I will pony up to that bar stool and watch as the bartender pours that ice cold drink.
But, I sit here. Letting it happen. Ruminating and simmering in my own discontent. Wishing I had meaningful relationships outside of my family and Lars. Wishing I had one girlfriend out there that would just intuit that I’d gone postal and come over, purse swinging at her side, cardboard tray of Starbucks beverages in hand, and a pocket-book-pack of Kleenex ready to go for the waterworks that are about to commence. Where is she? My best friend, my back up?
I don’t have one. Because, instead of going to a women’s meeting and chatting with women who are likely to understand me, who could potentially be my friends, I am here. Wiping my cry-baby-snot from my nose with my hand and telling my cat, who has a very confused expression, I might add, that she is all I have in the world.
What makes many of us alcoholics hole up like this? I don’t know.
What’s the solution? Going to meetings? Making friends? Getting a hobby that involves human contact? Yes. Yes. And, yes.
But, I’m still figuring this deal out. I don’t know who I am yet. I don’t know how to make these friendships I’m supposed to have. I just can’t yet. But, I’m not drinking today.
It’s the best I can do some days. Just fuck all, and stay sober.