I haven’t had to fight sobriety yet.
The men sent to fix my basement drilled out a one foot hole and left, not willing to deal with the depth of the flooding. I continue to live with the sound of water being pumped out of my house. The sound of water rushing back into it, nonstop. The fear of my foundation failing now that the dirt and sand below my house, holding it up, has begun coming into it.
It is breaking me.
I skipped therapy last week. I skipped just about everything that had to involve leaving the house because I knew I’d stop at a bar or a liquor store. I’ve fantasized every way possible to start drinking again. Conveniently leaving out the aftermath in every daydream.
Therapy today was rough, it was hard to even go but I knew I needed to. She said I’m trying to do everything by myself and that relational situations will help me (i.e. go spend time with people in AA). She told me it’s “old ways” I’m reverting to, that the child in me wants to disappear and wait for someone to find the bones. She told me I’m not asking for help because I believe everyone goes away anyways.
I am fighting to stay sober for the first time. And inside I feel a foul beast lashing out at everyone who would offer a helping hand.
The part of me that’s dry, that’s been through seven months of therapy and has seen the aftermath of being a drunk, is telling me that the first sip won’t solve anything. Not only is a bottle void of solutions, it’s filled with regret that will wash over me as I start to slip into disrepair.
The other part of me, the loud and obnoxious voice that’s craving for attention in all the familiar self-destructive ways, keeps asking why it all matters. It keeps reminding me that I’ve isolated myself into a position so detached from the rest of society that it would literally, literally, go unnoticed.
I told my therapist today that in-between these moments of anger and fear I am beginning to recognize how dramatic my thoughts and actions are. And that life without drama, in the case that I conquer these behavioral patterns and addiction issues, seemed bleak. Pointless. Like how darkness is just the absence of light. Not bad. Just…nothing. And how exhausting that train-of-thought has been this past week. No rest for the wicked, with drama or without.
Another day sober, though. 217 of them. She’s texting me right now to make sure I’m still okay. Guess the session was as rough as it felt.