The day after Halloween, a wonderful time filled with discount candy and a reminder that I must be one blessed fucker to have so many addictions to call my own. Before I started drinking (and during my drinking) I “coped” with life through a variety of methods–bingeing, purging, self-mutilation, screwing everything that moved, remaining willfully (but not initially literally) cracked out on lack of sleep, smoking, etc. etc. etc. The dysfunction was there from the beginning. Which I suppose makes it seem like a somewhat reassuring constant. It’s that whole smoke balloon imagery again, I experience mania or even just regular happiness/stability and though it feels great, I feel a lot more comfortable when that balloon loses its oomf after a few days and shrivels up back in my head. I have some pretty set-in-stone identifiers for myself–one being that I’m so used to feeling like my soul is molding that the feeling is a security blanket, one that I both claim to want to grow out of and cling to like a trembling toddler.
That said, I’ve been feeling more frequently okay lately. I know this is because of AA. It kind of blows my mind how much these groups have begun to mean to me over the past few months. I miss going to meetings when I can’t make it. I miss the people I’ve met. The stories. Even meetings that feel like they are dragging on forever and full of trite bull shit leave me feeling inexplicably better. But, I’m also feeling an occasional sense of dread–I know my propensity to start things with a feverish passion and devotion just to abandon them some time later. It’s a little bit like waiting for the other shoe to drop or waiting for that sick bitch in my head to successfully glamorize the shit-show to an extent that I lose my footing.
I can tell that I’m still very unwell. Physically, the signs of recovery are becoming more and more apparent, but mentally/emotionally, I still feel like I’m just a stumble and a trip’s distance from falling off the edge again. I guess I should say “again” with a grain of salt. There is this Hunter S. Thompson quote that I think about often: “The edge, there is no honest way to explain it, because the only ones who really know where it is are the ones that have gone over”. Maybe I haven’t gone completely over at all if I still have that bit of hope that I can be saved. We talk about bottoms quite frequently in the rooms (not quite enough about booties, though). People say that it isn’t quite a prerequisite to the hard-won badge of alcoholism but it kind of is. None of us, no matter what our qualification for utter demoralization is, do anything with much moderation. I came to the realization yesterday that I really don’t crave having a drink after a long day and I don’t really wish that I could drink like a normal person. What I crave is still oblivion. I drank to get drunk–every. time. If I go out again, it will not be with the hard-headed belief that I can moderately drink, it will be with the fiery intent to break apart like a rock hurtling through the atmosphere. That’s what I mean when I say that I don’t think I have another recovery in me if this attempt fails–I picture my life imploding faster and more brutally than ever before. I’m trying really, really fucking hard not to make that sound like an appealing option in my head. That I have to try so hard to convince myself to survive is a reminder that I’m sick.
I’m hanging in there, not checking out today.
89 Days Sober