Tag: marriage

Addiction · Autobiography · Mental Health · Relationships

Two Years Sober

Ruby Pipes36 Comments
"Windows Molde Norway abstract" © Les Haines, 2012. CC BY 2.0.
“Windows Molde Norway abstract” © Les Haines, 2012. CC BY 2.0.

Tomorrow will be my second sober anniversary and I am terrified. So terrified I’ve found myself lying on the floor, still in my coat and scarf, kicking the wall, and sobbing. So terrified I drove to my parents’ house after dinner to cry onto my mother’s shoulder. So terrified I’m struggling to find the words to write about it. Terrified.

Because the second year is when I learned that not drinking isn’t the end of the battle. That I’m still sick. I still have bipolar disorder and it’s still something that needs to be managed. The second year is when I learned that there’s a difference between giving your all and giving enough.

The second year is the year I learned that yes, I have PTSD. Yes, some horrible things have happened to me. Yes, I’ve been hurt by people, but they didn’t do this to me. The second year is when I learned that no matter how much other people have done, the fact that I’m sick is nobody’s fault and I have to stop blaming them. That blaming them is just letting them do it again and again.

This year I finally learned that if I’m ever going to get better I have to mourn the loss of normality. I have to let go of the idea that if I can just stay sober everything will be okay. I learned I have to manage my medication, go to therapy, exercise everyday, avoid caffeine, get regular sleep, and write daily. Just like not drinking, these aren’t options for me. They’re not perks. It’s just what I have to do if I want to be okay. And I want to be okay.

If I’m going to do that, some things have to change. I have to admit that I’ve been wallowing in my marriage in order to avoid discovering who I really am without booze. That I’ve let a relationship become my defining attribute, so that I don’t have to figure out what my defining attribute is. What I want it to be. I’m going to have to admit that I’ve been using love and food and video games and sleep to prop me up the way bourbon used to.

I feel like I just barely made it to the finish line this year. I feel like a dry drunk. But I also know that–just like when I quit drinking–realizing what I need to do is half the battle. So in the next year I’m going to give myself the space to figure out who I am as a person. Give myself the space to manage my illness effectively. The space to stop blaming my character flaws on what happened to me in the past. The space to stop confusing character flaws and symptoms.

Because when I hit my third year, I want to know I earned it. I want to know I’m stronger. I want to know I did it different.

Autobiography · Mental Health · Relationships

Belief

Ruby Pipes16 Comments

"Empty House" © Jeff Garris, 2011. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
“Empty House” © Jeff Garris, 2011. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
I rock back and forth. The ever-present, “I can’t do this,” dripping from my lips.

Mason whispers into the nape of my neck, “Yes. You can. I believe in you.”

I inhale sharp and nod my head. Hemingway running through my mind, “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”

In therapy Leif won’t even let me entertain the idea. “You are not uniquely broken. It sounds like you want to create different habits and responses. There’s no reason you can’t do that.”

I stare at him and bite my lip and start to cry and nod again. “Okay,” I say. Though it feels like it’s more for his benefit than anything.

Strangers leave blog comments as votes of confidence. I get pumped up for a moment, but I inevitably remember that I don’t believe any of it. That I think it’s all bullshit. Like I know some great secret no one else does. Truth is, no matter how much everyone else believes I am capable of making it out of this, I’m not.

I’ve always asked if bridges were high enough when crossing them. Always known where the hotels with balconies are. Always been aware of how long it takes to get a gun in the city I’m living in. I’ve always had a running list of options. Always known I am just biding my time until I break down well enough to go.

I talked openly about how I wouldn’t make it to twenty-five. But rarely mention how I continue to assume I won’t make it another year. Every birthday comes as a complete shock to me. Every anniversary.

But they’ve been right all along. I’m the one who has been foolish.

Inhale sharp. Nod my head. Mean it. This year I’ll learn to believe it.

I love you, Mase. Happy anniversary.

September 2015.
September 2015.
Autobiography · Mental Health · Relationships

Crumble

Ruby Pipes34 Comments

"Puddle Play" © Mary Jo Boughton, 2015. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
“Puddle Play” © Mary Jo Boughton, 2015. CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.
I held my breath all the way home. Led Mason back into our apartment, walked to the bedroom, and collapsed on the floor. Hurt went through me like waves and I tried to ride them. Tried to steady my breathing. Say something nice or think of one good thing about myself.

Slouched over to one side, I curled my knees into my chest and sobbed. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.” Just one of those nights. One of those days. I started running through my list of emergency contacts. Practiced saying, “I need you to take me to the hospital,” under my breath.

Mason came into the bedroom when I started to hyperventilate and throw fists. Coaxed me onto the bed and pulled me into his chest tight. Immobilized, I softened.

“I’m trying. I’m trying. I’m trying so fucking hard and I don’t feel like anything is changing. And I can’t exist like this.”

My own words crashed over me. Each one a sharp epiphany. They pointed to my exhaustion, my self-doubt. They told me the truth about how I’ve been seeing myself lately. Torn between how I’ve been feeling and how I want to feel. Logically, I know I’m a good person who is working hard. Emotionally, I feel like a waste of space who deserves nothing lovely.

“I just… I fucking hate myself.”

And I don’t think I’d ever admitted it to someone else before. I wanted to slap my own words out of my mouth. I knew how hurtful they were, to him and to me. But I didn’t know how to say anything else. It was the only thing that seemed to hold any significance. Any weight of its own.

I didn’t backpedal, though I wanted to. Wanted to make excuses about getting caught in the moment or being overly-dramatic. But that wouldn’t be true. I said it. I meant it.

But not all the time.

Sometimes I think I’m worth the work. Most of the time I know I do good things. And that’s what’s important to remember. When my fingernails are digging into the palms of my hands. When I’m listing the things in the house I need Mase to hide from me. I have to learn to remember it is not always like this.

It usually isn’t. Even though lately it is.