Still Not Sober

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For those who read my last post, as I expected, I failed in my attempt to stay sober.

I am not sure I can do this.

When it rains it pours. My family is toxic. Something I have known most of my life. After having to drag my 2 kids out of my moms house because she was high on meds and her house was so torn apart there was nowhere for the kids to sit or sleep. I threw cut up straws I found in her direction and told her I will not watch her die. Once again, my son is traumatized by addiction. My daughter is a little tougher. She actually started to help clean up while Nana screamed at me for calling her out on her billshit. I offered to help as well, but there was no where to start. She is in a wheel chair, attempting to manuever her way through piles of crap. I can’t watch anymore. She has been doing this for 15 years. I took the kids over to spend the night. There was no way I would leave there. We left. My son, with tears in his eyes, told that I should be there helping her the whole drive home.

In my son’s mind, it is just like I am to blame for his father being on the street smoking crack, in and out of jail. Because we should be together in his eyes. He doesn’t understand I had to pull them and myself away after years of drug abuse, in addition to physical, emotional, financial, sexual, and psychological abuse as well.

Later that night after the episode at my moms which I was pretty torn up about, (no one should see their mother that way), my cousin came over. I cried in her arms over our fucked up family. She consoled me about my mother by handing me 6 vicodin. My drug of choice. I woke up this morning wishing I had saved one. I knew better yesterday. I had drank a bottle of wine, so my judgement was altered and I just didn’t want to feel. That’s what addicts do. I am sitting here in pain. All kinds of pain. No vicodin and a house void of alcohol.

I am depleted of energy. I am done with my mom. I am done with my ex. I am done with cousin. I am done with this pain.

I have to make a better attempt at sobriety instead of using my painful past and my screwed up family as an excuse to drink and use.

It’s Sunday. I always drink when I watch football. Always. I will sit and bear it as long as I can. I can already envision myself going to the mini mart for one beer. I use the excuse of not wanting to withdrawl. I know it’s more psychological than physical. I am so disappointed in myself.

I have to do this. I want to do this. Let’s try again.

#GOHAWKS

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Bottoms Up, My Struggle With Alcohol

whiskey

The first night was easy. I was still hungover from the night before, New Year’s Eve.  I wasn’t planning on drinking any more than a glass of wine, well maybe a bottle, at home and just watch TV until I was tired.  I have never been a big fan of staying up too late and getting less than 7 hours of sleep.  Not since college anyway.  And now the bags under my eyes in the morning are enough to get me in bed by 10pm. As if the alcohol didn’t do enough damage. I would rather have my alcohol and go to bed early than stay sober and stay up too late.  As if I had a choice. I am an alcoholic.  Every morning, I walk across the hallway into the bathroom, begrudgingly turn on the light, and am either relieved at my reflection or absolutely mortified at the bags under my eyes.  They are so puffy, it appears as though I was socked in both eyes.  At first, I lean into the mirror as if I were a man trying to find that last nose hair he just can’t grab. Then I turn away as if I had just witnessed a horrible murder and try not to look again. Then comes the shame. And the frozen spoons.  And whatever miracle product I have discovered that says it cures morning bags and dark circles.

 

The second night?   That’s tonight. Not so easy.  You see, I have never made it past the second night in my attempt at sobriety.  It is just too hard.  I give in too early.   I told my daughter my New Year’s Resolution was to stop drinking.  That may have been a huge mistake.  I guess I was looking for a little more accountability.  If I make a promise to a 13 year old, maybe I will be less inclined to destroy it. .  

I detest New Year’s Resolutions. They are a major set up to fail.  Let’s take the one thing we love the most, but is most likely killing us, put it on a pedestal, and tell the world you will never do it again. Crazy stupid!  Yes, the good intentions are in your heart.  But it’s a way out for when we fail.  And usually we do. So I can say when my daughter sees me with a glass of wine or a beer, “Oh honey, New Year’s Resolutions are just attempts with good intentions. They rarely come to fruition.”

 

My alcoholism is to the point of no return.  I don’t think I can ever be a normal drinker.  Alcoholics don’t drink like everybody else.  I can’t have just one.  What is the point?  It doesn’t change how I feel.  And isn’t that the point?  I hate to feel.  Always have.  I suppose that is why I am in this predicament.

 

I am taking my kids to their Nana’s house tonight.  Christmas break is almost over. She wants them to spend a couple nights as she claims she never gets to see them.  For myself, I will be walking into a household pharmacy. I will have a nice selection of morphine and dilaudid, muscle relaxers and valium.  She doesn’t keep much alcohol around anymore, but there will be some.  All I have to do is ask with my puppy dog eyes.  Another quality of an addict…  Manipulation.  Now you know where some of these issues I have originated. At least ninety percent of my family are addicts. Most of them still using.  I am the youngest.  I am 40.  

bottoms up

 

So tonight will be a huge test.  The odds are stacked against me.  I usually fail.  I have always failed at this.  I have been to treatment twice.  Once 15 years ago and the other 8 years ago. I am afraid. I wish I could just be a normal person and go out and have a good time.  I used to be able to have a drink or two without blacking out or becoming obnoxious.  I could handle a bottle of wine at home in the evening without yelling at the kids. My body is changing and so is my ability to handle my liquor.  In other words, my alcoholism is progressing and I am afraid I cannot beat it.

 

People’s secrets keep them sick.  I have close to a hundred, I am sure.  And I will fight til the death to keep it that way.  I can never work the steps of AA, because the 9th step is righting all the wrongs you have done in your addiction. In person! There is just no way.  Maybe that is the root of my drinking.  I am killing pain I do not want to feel.  I can’t bear the thought of having all of those secrets rush to the front of my head. I have worked too hard to suppress them.  What in the hell do I do with them?  It’s easier just to stay sick and keep the mess buried in the dark places in my head.

 

I’ll keep you posted about tonight. Happy New Year.

 

What Would You Do?

neurosis
What would you do if it were me face down on the sidewalk instead of you?

Ambaum Boulevard and SW 124th Street.

What if I called you on a Saturday afternoon begging for you to come to me.

An intersection, my only offering.

Would you come for me?

If my body couldn’t move because it needed a syringe, would you come?

What would you do if I were writhing in front of my dealer’s house?

Alone. In pain. In tears.

Wanting to die.

You were the only person left in the world I could call.

All other bridges I had burned.

What would you do?

I can tell by your voice you remember the pain.

But where is your compassion?

I know you remember.

The anguish of the mind.

The agony of each bone.

The ache of every muscle.

How did I get here?

How could I let this happen?

Again… and again.

Would you give me 20 bucks and watch me crawl like a beggar through my dealer’s doorway?

Maybe you would show up to scream at me for destroying our lives?

Or would you simply pick up my frail, run-down body out of the street and take me to a hospital?

Perhaps you would call the police?

At least I would have a place to go.

Three hots and a cot.

Or would you let me suffer?

Like I let you suffer.

Covering your ears praying it’s just a nightmare.

Or would you simply stop answering the phone and wait for me to stop breathing?

What would you do?

I called the police that day.

I was too far away to make it to him.

I didn’t want him to die.

He handed me the intersection.

So I turned over his life.

It’s not where he wanted to end up that day.

But he is alive.

What would you do if the father of your chiildren called you from the floor of a sidewalk…

What would you do?

man on sidewalk

Remember Me

fatherless-chalkboard

She was phenomenal in every way,

Yet unsure of how to accept a compliment.

Her beauty was captivating.

However, her shame blinded her from seeing her true reflection.

She wrestled with her obsession to scrub and organize her surroundings,

Always in an attempt to face her own neurosis.

Her thoughts are what killed her, you know.

She grappled with them through every second of daylight.

And she bantered with them not to lead her into the darkness at night when she closed her eyes.

Like a babe in the woods, she latched onto her thoughts as they became vultures with talons, not realizing their intention to ruin and deprave her soul.

With severed legs, she could not run.

With a torn and fragmented heart, she could not feel.

This extraordinary woman, lost in her own despair, sincerely could not find her way out.

She had become so addicted to wandering into the desolate closets of her mind, she knew that leaving bread crumbs would help her come back…

But the vultures pulled and tugged at the small thread of lucidity she held onto until she could not feel at all…

All of the small things mattered a bit too much.

The distractions of her worried mind.

Sadness disabled her heavy eyes from searching around to see the beauty of the world.

Just as often, she failed to look around to notice the charm of her little ones.

From time to time she caught glimpses of their joy, and at times their afflictions.

These moments were when the urgency to stay alive kicked in.

This rare and remarkable woman travailed until she grew weary.

Her body never gave up, but the venomous thoughts caused her mind to wither away.

This woman prevailed exquisite and admirable.

Yet, she did not know this to be true of herself.

This woman loved you enough to stay alive as long as she could.

She had to let go.

This phenomenal woman was your mother.

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Invictus

absence

Maybe not being able say “Happy Birthday” to your daughter on her thirteenth birthday is exactly what you need, so you can feel the depth of how low you have sunk this time.

The realness of the text message brought him back to reality, the same feeling he had been running away from.  It severed his heart.  And his heart bled shame.

He sat on the floor against the wall, at some junkies’ apartment or a cheap motel in which he bartered for shelter.  His phone slipped out of his hand to his side onto the floor.  He picked up his crack pipe with his other hand simultaneously, a movement so robotic it no longer required any thought, just the trigger of an addict’s feeling, if it deserves that much respect.  He exhaled the cloud of white smoke. It wasn’t the head rush, but rather the heaviness of his grief, that caused his head to collapse into his hands.  The pipe dropped and he let out a scream.  A wail that nearly emptied his soul.

On the other side of the world, or so it felt, I too, divulged a scream.  It was a cry of exhaustion. A plea of desperation. Okay, that sounds too elegant. It was more like an ugly explosion. I dropped to my knees with my hands cupped over my ears and I yelled as loud as my lungs would allow. I had to let go of the angush. The obligation of him I could no longer hold.  Like mothering a child, I was clinging to a responsibility.  But this burden was no longer mine to bear.

Happy Birthday my sweet girl.  May you never have to carry the burden of this man.  You are stronger without him. As am I. We are never broken.

Invictus.

DRUNK

alcoholism

Let’s get really drunk.

Let’s get fucked up.

I don’t want to feel how much I hate myself.

Let’s wait until morning, shall we ?

So I can yell and scream about how fat I am because I drink too much.

About how miserable I feel because I want to write my memoir,

But I can’t because I work all the time.

And when I an not working, I am with you and the kids.

I want to drink until I can no longer feel.

I do it nearly every night.

I have to work tomorrow.

I know I will wake up a mess,

I will care when I see the bags under my eyes.

I will hate myelf.

Something I am used to though.

Right now, I have  a beer and a shot in front of me.

Been drinking since the AM,

I don’t give a fuck right now.

I am a tortured soul.

If it weren’t for my 2 children, I would die right now.

I hurt,

I will hurt tomorrow.

I was once a homeless crack addict,

This should not be as bad as it feels,

As horrible as the past,

But it is.

My name is Melisa.

I am an alchoholic.

And no one understands me..

So here’s to another day of drunkesness,gaining weight, and forgetting I am a parent of 2 beautiful children,

Fucking miserable.

I just wanna be high all the time….

Help me.

Please.

Paralyzed

codependeny

She, the beautful one, is twenty-two years young.

She has so much to say,

But fears she’ll come undone.

What if the words coming make no sense?

Maybe no one is listening.

Seems she only has fragmented thoughts,

Often not ever making it onto the page.

Just better to remain silenced, she thinks.

At 22, she should have this down,

Like walking to the mailbox.

In.  Out.  Open.  Close.  Repeat.

All that changes is the terrain.

The footwear.

The weather.

She walks down the same steep, concrete stairs at 22 as when she was 14.

The former a chore for approval and excitement.

The latter, just a burden.

Nothing in that box but bills, bills mommy paid.

Little did she know her mother’s helpful intentions were chaining her down,

One leg at a time, one arm at a time.

Finally stealing her voice.

She is now paralyzed by the very person who gave her life.