A Flare In the Dead Space of My Mind (day 109)

One of the most fucked-up things about addiction is that you cannot logic your way out of it. It isn’t that you aren’t aware of all the damage you are doing to yourself it’s just that nothing about knowing any of that is going to stop you. You need the drug because you need the high because you just need it. By the time you are addicted to it you have dug out your brain to the point where you hate that you are drinking even as you are pouring the drink. But the story is always the goddamn same. The drink wins because it was always winning long before you knew the rules of the game.

The rules being: heads booze wins, tails you lose.

I woke up in a cute little boutique hotel room downtown one morning about ten years ago and realized fairly quickly that I had absolutely zero memory of how I returned to it the night before. We had been on a bar crawl and I made the ‘mistake’ of starting heavy and not letting up because that’s what I always did except that now I was old enough to know better. Apparently, I was talking too loud in a sex shop about stupid things which I found hilarious and then I passed out sitting up on the stairs to the bathroom of some swank restaurant bar. My friends were told to collect me and get the hell out, which we all did. My husband put me to bed. When I asked what happened he told me and I remember feeling a sudden slash of fear cut right from the back of my throat to the center of my stomach.

I had done a lot of stupid reckless shit in my twenties. But when I was still doing it in my thirties it started to panic me. Not for long, but still. I am sure I resumed drinking that Sunday afternoon. I mean, why ruin a sweet get-away weekend by ending the party early. I was still in control, I just needed some help sometimes. Better that than pull some dramatic shit like quit dumping poison into my precious veils. And my man said it wasn’t so bad. It was fine. I was fine. It’s all a good laugh. Just some good clean fun. Something to talk about over drinks with friends.

Now I know what bullshit that was. Not only the event but the response. The writing shit like that off as just an inevitable part of the experience of weekends hanging out on the city bar scene. Except it wasn’t inevitable for anyone but me. Ten plus years later I can still feel how sick I felt the next morning and how when he told me what I did I felt only numbness, only the deadness of blackout space. Like being blindfolded and reaching out into empty air, feeling for something to hold on to but finding absolutely nothing. Nothing at all.

Looking back on it now, I would say that was the beginning of the spark of my recognition of my drinking problem. It burst like a shock out of nowhere, like plugging your finger into an electric outlet yet being stunned by the jolt. I didn’t expect it even though, logically, I know how electricity works. It flashed like a bulb that flares bright as the sun one last time before it burns completely out. But in that split second, the unwelcome glare illuminated every crack in every wall in the dimming halls of my freshly frightened mind.

Dirty and True (first sober Easter) (day 107)

So much of the overwhelm of a sober “first” comes from the freaky anticipatory jitters. At least for me. I can’t explain it I can just say it is a real thing that happens. This is my first sober Easter and it already feels strange at 7:50 in the morning.

The clashing collection of new feelings. The way I’m already strategizing about where the alcoholic versus non-alcoholic drinks will be displayed. All I can say is that sometimes moving through early sobriety is wave after wave of realizing how deep the addiction really ran. Because now I am pulling that sickness out by the roots. 

It’s dirty.

Here you are dressed in your Sunday best and inside you feel like you are smearing mud all over what is supposed to be pristine, perfect, joyous. Celebratory.

And also. Also, digging your fingers into this new soil feels like you are learning to anchor yourself in the kind of truth that will finally sustain you. It is rich with cool relief and nutrients you didn’t expect you needed.

It’s a secret but the good kind. The kind that is just between the universe and you and no one else.

It is the kind of intimacy you have been desperate for all your life. The kind you almost destroyed yourself to get to. The kind which reveals you to yourself. The ugliest and most gorgeous.

It is messy and true and I’m here for all of it.

What We Turn Into (audio) (day 105)

You want everyone to know and you want no one to know and somewhere inbetween lies not the truth necessarily but the reality. It all gets a bit jumbled inside that mind of yours which is where the trouble starts and ends and starts again on repeat for your whole life. After two decades of cutting yourself short before you could ever deal with hard stuff it can be confusing and overwhelming when all the previously pent up emotions come crashing forward in waves of tears or fury or exhaustion.

I guess I’d say that’s where I am now it seems. I am very tired. I mean I sleep beautifully and I am ‘well-rested’ in that sense but emotionally, feelingly, I am very, very tired. I am not used to holding up the weight of feeling everything without abandoning it. It can feel quite glaring. It can feel like your skin is being burned off your bones. Exposure. The bareness of shedding years and years of protection, armor, calloused skin. Life is an exposed nerve.

This weekend is the Easter stuff. I like to read about and think about and celebrate the way the pagans once did, way back before the organized religions capsized the raw beauty of nature and cycles and seasons. Rebirth. Renewal. All the gorgeous bursts of brand new life sprouting and shaking easily in the cool spring winds. There is warmth in the veins of the trees. They spread their wild fingers out into the frigid morning air. They think not about fear. They do not shrink. They reach and reach because the reaching must be done.

For over a decade I wanted to be a sober person. I was so jealous of sober people. How much sweeter a life it must be to drop the act. Finally put a stop to the torture in the mind which is divided against itself. Drink / don’t drink. Drink / don’t drink. Do I or don’t I have a problem. Can I or can’t I keep this up. Will I or won’t I ever get better.

Life. Death. Resurrection. First the pain then the waiting then the rising. Spirals and tendrils and coincidences and miracles and mistakes and all the time, all the lives, you can never get back. The moon will be a full one this Easter season. We cry and we crawl and we fly and we turn, turn, turn, like that song about seasons which is really about the parts of the soul we try so hard to understand. We run and we fall and we dance again.

Fucking with Sober People on the Internet (day 104)

Watching as the nearly-full April moon sinks lower and lower in the black morning sky, I am still snuggled underneath the blankets as wild springtime bird chatter rises and falls through my open window at 4:35am. It is still pitch dark out but already 71 degrees. My sheets are damp with sweat which smells a little salty and a little sweet. A little like fresh shampoo and a little like the soft nuzzle of warm sleep. The moonscape is like something from a movie or a painting. The perfect yellow-baked glowing disc swathed faintly in thin pewter fingers of cloud, which move slowly away away to reveal the shadowed craters of giant rock surface. It is a moment of pure intimacy between the moon and me and no one else in the entire world. Like peace, handed to me on a silver platter. I take it. I smile and it sinks all the way into me.

It has been a weird fucking week. A day or so ago, someone on Instagram published one of my quotes on her page and she took all the time, care, and effort to erase my name from it before she share it. Right out in the open. Like this was just a thing one does. Just like that. My words were stripped from me, or I from them, and regurgitated by a whole ass stranger. It is hard to describe how that feels. It isn’t the first time it has happened to me but this was the first time my quote and my caption were about my sobriety. Yes, indeed, she stole my caption, too. Without mentioning me at all anywhere. And I thought to myself, how pathetic. How absolutely tragic that this human wanted to say what I had said but instead of searching herself for her own wisdom she just took the lazy way and ripped me off. Plucked my genuine personal thoughts and passed them right along as her own. How brilliant. How classy. How plug-and-play a life she must lead. I asked her why on earth she would do such a thing. She responded by deleting her entire account. Even just typing that makes me laugh aloud.

What a strange fucking thing to waste one’s time with. Her for doing it and me for even bothering to call her out. It’s just the internet. It’s just petty bullshit. But I think what really got under my skin was that I didn’t get to that quote she stole without a lot of fucking hard soul work. And you’d like to think people would respect that about a newly sober human. But the truth is that everything you create can be fucked with and everything you hold sacred can be desecrated in the time it takes to figure out how to erase someone’s name off of their own intellectual property. lol. Like seriously how do you even do that. It’s almost clever if it weren’t so goddamn stupid.

But ridiculous as it may sound, there is a secretly breathtaking truth inside the sting of being violated like that. Slicing someone away from their own sobriety hurts like hell because sobriety is the ultimate intimacy with the self. There is no other feeling or relationship, no other promise or vow or commitment or bloodswear that can be compared to it. When you can say you are sober, you are saying no one and nothing else comes between you and your truest self. Sober is the closing of the gap between what you say you value and what you actually do. What you want and what you make sure against all brutal odds you maintain. Maybe that’s a good mini-thought to share on social media. Sometimes my little bits get shared a fuck lot of times and I guess that’s how I know they are worthy ones. Or if they get stolen. I guess that means a thought was damn fine, too.

I sip my second cup of coffee as the sky lightens from rich navy blue to velvet sapphire. I write my blog post, I design my ‘content’ and I think about the absurdity of all of it. I am grateful to the sprinkled twinkled stars in the heavens above that I get to even talk about any of this beautiful mess at all. It is everything to me. Because they can say what they want and steal what they covet and talk trash on the internet until they get their little tiny rocks off. All I know is that I haven’t had a hangover in one hundred and four days. And only a person who knows what I know and does what I do and has been through the hellfire I have can ever truly say that.

Perhaps Nothing More Dangerous (day 103)

When you get sober you get a lot of time back. Like straight unfucked-up time. You are clear and chill and aware. You sleep beautifully. You don’t have a bunch of toxic chemicals rusting and gutting out the chewed up ruts in your intestines or your brain or your thoughts.

I remember one morning shaking so badly I had trouble applying mascara and lipstick was entirely out of the question. That scared me, actually. But not enough. I remember countless times waking up in bed with my phone smashed against the floor and my AirPods each having fallen their separate ways. One buried under the covers and one in the corner across the room.

And I guess a part of you could find that funny. That I had passed out with no recollection of how I fell asleep, what I was watching on my phone. The glass on the night stand with the sticky crust of old white wine congealed on the bottom like the salt clumps of dried up tears. My aching head. It is possible to feel embarrassed even with no one around, just in front of yourself. Only it isn’t embarrassment it’s shame and it burns and it hurts and it clutches at the entire breadth of your chest. And I didn’t know what to do with that. I didn’t want to feel it, I knew that. And there was really only one way I dealt with feelings I didn’t want to feel.

And only I didn’t pass out like a person who had just lived a hectic full day and was tired for all the normal reasons one can be tired at the end of a day. I didn’t pass out, I blacked out. And there is a very vast and deadly difference between those two phenomenons. You can do all kinds of shit while blacked out. You can carry on a conversation. You can flirt and fuck and eat and order more drinks. And smoke a pack of cigarettes while discussing politics or porn or whatever else falls into your mind and tumbles out of your slowed-down mouth. And drive a car. And laugh. And argue and scream and run and fall. And somehow get into and out of hotel rooms. And all of these things that you are doing, you are doing them while your brain imprints absolutely no memory of any of it whatsoever.

Because you have ingested so much ethanol that you forced your body to have to make a choice: remember things or keep you alive. At a certain level of intoxication, you can’t have both. Too much energy has to be spent trying to clear your system of poison. And so I would collect my little ear buds from wherever they had landed when I crashed and wonder if anyone in the house heard my phone slam against the ground at some random hour of the night I do not recall because I could not feel or hear or sense anything at all. And I do not laugh because it isn’t funny it is lonely and tragic and helpless. And no body knows except me.

I weep inside so hard for that old version of me. She was so lost and so sad and so busted up. So confused. So wasted. Functional, though. “High functioning.”

All this to say that I have a lot of time now. Time to sort through shit. To face the hurt and the pain and the fear. But one thing I know I can do with this time not spent either drowning or resuscitating myself, is pay attention. To what I need. To what I deserve. To what I want. And I am starting to see why our culture would rather a woman remain fucked-up. Why the jokes about ‘rose all day’ and ‘mommy juice’ and ‘this is probably wine’ mugs. All that bullshit I used to buy into. When you are sedated you can’t say what you mean or claim what’s yours. When you are drunk-combative they can call you deranged and you can’t argue with that.

But if you can manage to wake up from the illusion, you get your life back. You get every minute of every day, evening, night, morning, and dawn. To make happen what you want to happen. To do and say and experience and claim and change and elevate what you desire with your entire unconventional, capable, strong, electric being. And perhaps those who are at the helm, the ones who benefit most from the pushing of the booze, the creators of this culture and this kind of warped, predatory society that glorifies trashing innocent bodies and minds at every turn, perhaps somewhere deep down, they know there is nothing in this world more dangerous than that.

Telling Your Story Will Cost You (day 102)

I write because the thought of not writing fills me with so much dread it is literally unbearable. The pressure builds up in my body and my psyche and it can be so deafening that it actually works against itself. It’s like trying to sing one song in your head while another one is blaring from the speakers all around. Writing is a must is what I am saying. But there is a dark side to sharing the “light” as some people call it (which is infuriating for a whole slew of reasons I’ll not get into right now) and that is that as soon as you open your mouth to tell a thing people hear you and open their mouth to respond. Even when they shouldn’t. Even when what they have to say has nothing to do with you.

I don’t know what it is about saying you are sober. To some people it sounds like you have your shit together and they offer nothing but mad respect. To some other people – for reasons entirely baffling to me – it sounds like you are in need of their guidance. Or advice. Or direction. Or enlightenment. These people say things unsolicited and with such blind and ridiculous certainty it almost makes me laugh and sometimes when the stars align and I’m in just the right mood, I do.

But I will tell you the truth about what it is really like to be me at one hundred and two days sober. I am pretty pissed about a lot these days. Because sobriety is clarity and when you get clear about what offers you true peace you also get crystal fucking clear about what is robbing it from you. What has been robbing it from you for years and years. And when the flood waters recede, and you see what weeds were beneath the surface strangling you, keeping you tied to the bottom of that wretched raging river of mania and fury, illusions shatter. Lies that were once masked in the muck and the chaos before are now naked and shivering in the cold shriveling light of day.

There’s a lot that is very, very not pretty.

Sharing my story over the past one hundred and two days has been a deeply weird experience. It has felt surreal and at the same time as it has felt the realest and rawest I have ever felt about anything ever before in my entire life. I am deeply, profoundly grateful for the ability to do it. I cling to it. I need it. I believe I was designed to do it. Meant to do it.


And at the same time, there are costs to doing it. There are consequences; the most obvious of which is dealing with people’s reactions. Some listen and some do not. Some respond in ways that are absolutely heart-meltingly kind and supportive and gentle and reverent. And some people respond in ways that are blatantly self-conscious and self-centered. Some, down right arrogant. Some, down right callous and cruel. As a newly fully sober person in a world drenched in booze and triggers and fucked up personalities which can launch words (and silence) like bullets straight to the heart, opening up can be as isolating as it is liberating. I do it in spite of – and because of – that.


Author’s note: Comments on this post are closed. If any of my posts move you, please show your kind support by sharing them with others the words may help.

What I Finally Lost at 100 Days Sober (day 101)

The calendar where I keep count of my sober days clicks (not unexpectedly but still it’s startling) into triple digits and I feel a deep tug in my stomach. I am not sure exactly how to describe the feeling, perhaps because I have never felt it before – this particularly odd sensation of dread, detachment, and . . . reverence? awe? . . . . all braided together like a giant knot right at the dead center of my core.

Loss. It might be the perplexing feeling of loss. Which may sound weird and admittedly it is weird for me, too. People like to tell you to ‘celebrate each day’ and that ‘each day of sobriety is a gift’ and all that jazz. All cool. All true. But there is a vast difference between the casual spouting of a cliche and living each and every day out in real time with real feelings and real people and no where to hide. Actually no – correction – no desire to hide.

That may be it. You want to reveal everything. You don’t want any more secrets because to get to one hundred plus days sober means along that way you revealed some massively heavy shit at the very least to yourself and found it incredibly freeing.

And the sense of loss is this realization that those double digit days are never coming back. Not the euphoria of the first few weeks of new sobriety. Not the brutality of the acute fixations, the cravings that gnawed through the lining of your sick stomach or exhausted, hollowed-out brain. And what is rather surprising is that you miss all of that. Not in the kind of way where you want to do it over again (fuck knows) or want it back but rather in the sense that you have now managed to string together a solid backstory of your first steps toward fixing your own life.

It’s like being really proud of your kid for learning to ride a bike but also realizing she will never learn it again for the first time. There’s a melancholy to it.

To find out you can miss something without clinging to it. That you can cherish something and not suffocate it or try desperately to recreate it or pick yourself apart for the ways you didn’t do every bit of it ‘right’ – this is one of the most profound and astounding revelations you are blessed inexplicably to receive when you are free of the substance which abused you for so goddamn long. You can experience loss in all of its bizarre facets, you can withstand the passing of time as it slides through your now-steady fingers, without needing it to be anything other than what it is.

Which is to say you do not need to numb yourself out of it. It is not unbearable. It is not unthinkable to feel the longing which you have felt your whole entire life, the one you kept sinking yourself to the bottom of the beautiful bottle to try to kill off, and pour the coffee. And write about it. Look at it. Sit inside of it and watch its light and its shadows make strange shapes on the walls of your newly pristine mind.

On the morning of my hundredth day, a very loud bird sang its very brazen song directly outside my window and I was up stupid early as I am now all the time. I wrote for two hours. Then I poured two very large mugs of hot fresh coffee and brought them into the very large California king bed. I handed one mug to my husband. He with the lovely tan skin and wild blonde hair. And we talked about some very, very hard shit that I had been feeling for a very long time. Stuff I knew I had to say because sobriety means not faking and not faking means not hiding. Anything.

The contents of that tricky, imperfect, human, honest, tender, scary, eye-heart-soul-mind-opening conversation that I was – we were – actually able to bear are for another post entirely. But for right now, I remember what I lost as we talked and cried and hugged and unfurled. As I let out the toxic shit that was tugging at me in the aching swallow of my throat at one hundred days, I lost a very old pattern which kept me locked in a kind of self-destruction I hope I now mercifully have the strength and conviction to continue to outgrow. The pattern where I hold my pain in. That part. The part where I try not to hurt others by hurting myself instead.

At one hundred and one days, the double digit days are over and not coming back. But each one stacked upon the others taught me more than I was aware of until yesterday. If you can find it in yourself to share your pain, the pain becomes a possibility. If you can share your pain with someone who is willing to do the messy work of honest and flawed love with you, the pain becomes hope.

The triple digit days will go on for quite some time now. Years and years, the Universe willing. I think I will still count them. What the hell. We’ve come pretty damn far. Still plenty far to go. And that’s actually a more comforting thought than you might imagine.

On the Integration of Self in Early Sobriety (audio) (day 97)

What begins to happen is this wild sort of integration of the self. Because in sobriety you cannot leave yourself – you cannot abandon the good or the bad, the highs or the lows – the self has no choice but to do what comes naturally. That is to say, that which is not chemically induced or artificially manipulated. The self begins to integrate. And you feel stronger because all your bits aren’t scattered randomly all over the place, instead they are collecting and reflecting and building and restructuring the halls of the temple that is you.

There is a palpable sense of cohesion. Like all the chain links inside begin clicking into place. It feels a bit fortress-like. Perhaps it is the feeling of a self-protection you never had before. You are kinder and yet also you are steelier in ways that frighten you a bit but exhilarate you even more. Perhaps it is self-respect, this thicket of vines intertwining inside of the wilderness that is you. You make deliberate decisions about what you let penetrate, what you let into your space. You find that a hell of a lot of things will no longer be allowed.

All of the shards and sharp pieces take mercy on your psyche. Instead of cutting you up, piercing at your mind and your body, they begin to align themselves with one another like making a mosaic out of shattered clay or one of those beautiful stained glass windows you see in cathedrals all around the world. Self-loathing, self-hatred, self-judgment, self-harm, self-abuse, self-degradation, all these jagged edges fit together like puzzle pieces so they can finally stop hurting you and start making themselves known to you as tools, as bits of whispers, of art. Smaller pieces of a breathtakingly worthy creation. Yes, you did yourself dirty for a long long time. Yes, it is still hard to process. But you can face it all now. You can touch it and hold it and heal it and mend it.

No matter how ugly you felt or how cruel it all became. How many times you took your precious hurting body and hurled it against the pavement. It is all coming together now so you can see it and yet remain in control of it. Offer it peace. Offer it clean water and a warm safe bed. You were not subhuman. You were not bad you were hurting. You were not weak you were strength distorted, strength overgrown. A kind of strong which strangled itself.

I don’t know if this is making proper sense. As of late, I am a collection of moth wings fluttering all the time and my mind is drifting more often than not to grander places which I have never before seen. You know what I think? I think we run from our power even faster and harder than we run from our pain. I was running fast and hard in the cold early spring morning air a few days ago and tears were just streaming down my bare face in hot electric tracks. I’m ninety-seven days sober and tears and I are now just friends. I give in, I let them come and do what needs to be done. I think of them as holy water the angels pour through me, a connection to a higher realm. I love that I do not fully understand them. Tears are faith.

The amount of fucking weight we carry all the time. It’s too much. The way we live is not forgiving enough, not benevolent or soft enough to cradle the shards and broken bits. We need cushion. We need tendering. Not so we can fall helpless but because that is where the power lives. In that place where the good dovetails with the bad in such a way that you finally realize there is always both at the same time, and neither. We are so much bigger than that. We are the being which can see all of it. As we pull on our jeans and apply lipstick and fix the hair and drink the coffee and walk the dog and drive the car and hug our precious ones and fight the good, sweet, hard, beautiful, necessary fight. One day at a time. One tear, one breath, one word, one piece at a time we are becoming whole.


Photo: self portrait 4.6.22

Take Everything That’s Meant for You (day 96)

With my eyes tight shut and my heart beating fast in my chest, I listen as she describes for me the unique texture of my hair. It’s dense but fine, apparently. As she speaks, I can feel her breath on my skin and tiny blades of strawberry blonde pricking the top of my nose and my cheeks as the scissors slice away the front of my long mane. I’m nervous and exhilarated by the feeling of not knowing and not being able to undo what’s happening.

They say women get bangs when they are fresh out of their minds. Emotional distress bangs I once heard them called. This makes me smile to myself because people love to call women insane. They love to turn fun shit into all kinds of manic speculation about her fragile mental state for their own entertainment. Sigh. And so it is that I got bangs at ninety-five days sober and on day ninety-six I could not be more in love with them. They are thick and long and graze the tops of my dark eyelashes. My stylist refers to them as ‘French cut’ and so I cannot help but wonder if Paris should be in my near future simply because it sounds exotic and playful and crazy.

We spend a lot of time denying the light within. A lot of time denying the darkness, too. Equally dangerous is the denial of either. This thought occurs to me at random and while I can sense the depths of this dazzling revelation in the essence of my soul, I am more immediately distracted at the moment by a persistent headache I can only assume has been brought on – hilariously enough – by the non-alcoholic white Zinfandel I treated myself to last evening. Tannins or some shit. That’s why I was always a Sauvignon Blanc girl. What a lot of nonsense. I just wanted something pink swirling around in a gorgeous goblet in my hand. I can’t stand this headache it’s so not worth it. Fuck wine – boozy or not. How in the whole wide world did I ever put up with so very, very much worse for so very, very long.

NA drinks are fine and whatever. But I pour Pellegrino just as happily. The thing is it’s all head games. It’s all marketing we absorb through the skin and into our bloodstream into our mushy twisted brains. I’ve had the wildest dreams since a few weeks ago. Not while sleeping but while awake, like the kind of dreams they always talk about in motivational bullshit that I always wanted to experience but for some reason couldn’t. I never understood when someone would say “What are your big dreams?” I want a German Shepherd which is a fuck lot of dog for a tiny thing like me. I want to march my body right out of the office job that doesn’t even come close to scratching the surface of exploring all the juicy creativity which is bubbling inside of me. I want a life of good interesting artistic work. Some kind of soul electrifying, meaningful, deeply kind but jarring, disruptive thing. A thing that vibrates and surprises and comforts and challenges and shimmers.

When I decided I was getting sober it was a deeply rooted decision which happened in a flash but over a decade. That is to say I had wanted it for so long but then finally just did it suddenly without flinching. I wanted my sober date to be 1.1.22 which is significant for numeric reasons, symbolic to me of angels all around. And I will turn 44 this year. It all means something inexplicably beautiful to me. Something drenched in magic and promise.

So I just fucking did it. I wanted it and I took it. For myself. Everybody else’s opinions be damned. Isn’t that how all decisions must be made if you are to live your own life? On your own terms?

I mean, I got bangs for fuck sake. Clearly I’m out of the mind they wanted me locked away in and into my own now. Can taking everything else that’s meant for me be that far behind?

Why Quitting Gray Area Drinking Is Very Hard (day 95)

I wake up not hungover on my ninety-fifth day of sobriety but being not hungover is not the first thing that occurs to me upon opening my eyes. I still smile like a dork first thing, tho, because I can hear the coffee maker grinding fresh French roast beans as I lay warm and toasty still beneath the blankets. It suddenly strikes me as a little bit odd that I am not ecstatic about another sober morning. It wears off, I guess. That ‘pink cloud’ from the very first few weeks when each and every morning you are astounded that you have busted up a pattern you were certain could never be interrupted. Sober mornings are the new normal for me now. As are wine-free evenings. Even the weekends. Even the holidays.

It is hard to quit ‘gray area drinking’ or whatever the fuck they are calling it at the moment. It’s stupid to name it just like it’s stupid to label anything but it’s referred to a lot these days because a good lot of us are doing it and asking ourselves over and over if we are doing it ‘too much.’ You do not qualify for rehab. You haven’t lost anything that would indicate to the outside world, not even your closest family or friends, that you had a very serious problem. But on the inside of your mind it is a shaky chaotic minefield. You cannot trust yourself to stop. You do not stop. You do not see the point in stopping because then what the hell else is there? Wine saturates everything. It belongs everywhere all the time. It belongs at a party just as much as it belongs in bed with you at the end of the night. It belongs to you and you belong to it. It hurts you and controls you and ruins you but it also romances you, soothes you, holds you, takes care of you. You don’t mind drowning. You deserve drowning.

The real mindfuck of trying to quit the kind of drinking no one wants to believe they are doing whilst they flail around inside of very active addiction is that half the time your brain is telling you to stop making such a big deal about a nonsense problem. The other half the time it’s ragging on you to stop denying the glaring, deafening problem. And because there is no clear definition of what constitutes ‘the problem’ exactly, the battle rages on inside of you about whether or not to address the situation even as you can’t stop making it exponentially worse.

This is not a fully fleshed out blog post. Please forgive me. There is so much more to be said and explored and pulled apart and shared and yet I still have a nine-to-five corporate gig I need to keep up with. There is a very huge part of me that wants to give every waking moment over to studying addiction and recovery. Maybe one day I will. Fuck knows I never thought I would get this far. I keep wondering how many of us are out there struggling with the mental torment of being addicted to alcohol. Questioning what is normal and what is deadly. Have no where to begin to understand. Laughing along when on the inside we are scared to bits.

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