Day 11

Hi, my name is _____, and I'm an alcoholic.  

And I don't know how to start this post. 

I had something written out, which I started this morning, but then I had to scoot to a meeting. So not only did I lose my train of thought, my emotional and mental states have completely changed since 11 o'clock this morning. 

It's 7pm on Saturday night and I'm sitting on my bed in New York City coveting the final hour of sunlight on this lovely pre-spring day. And, of course, I am pondering how I will manage the span of time between now and sleep. Because sleep is safe. I can't get drunk while I'm sleeping.

I have been on my journey toward sobriety, in and out of the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous, for almost 4 years. I was introduced to the rooms when I was 18. Today I have 11 days. You do the math.

I can't tell you how often people in the rooms tell me how phenomenal it is that I am trying to get sober at such a young age. It's all praise and admiration, which is lovely, but I think they sometimes forget that I'm an alcoholic, too. And I will look for and hang onto any excuse to have a drink. So reminding me that I'm so young and I have so much life ahead of me and, my goodness, you can't even imagine getting sober at 22, doesn't really help the cause. Because what my alcoholic mind hears is "be young, go out, have a drink and come back in a few years. You'll be fine." I know better. I won't be fine. 

This post is probably going to be all over the place because, well, I'm all over the place. As I should be, I suppose. If I was a composed young woman I wouldn't need AA, right? 

Yesterday I spent a solid 12 hours in tears. Over everything and nothing at the same time. I don't know if I was crying over fears or frustrations or the simple fact that I haven't allowed myself to process any sort of emotions in such a long time that I needed a release. And I don't really care to figure it out. I let it happen, it wasn't pretty, and it's over now. Sort of. I must admit I've been nursing a mean emotional hangover all day. 

My body is physically drained, my mind is in overdrive and I'm seeking an escape. While I don't necessarily want to drink, I wouldn't mind phoning a male companion and/or smoking a pack of cigarettes to the face. But I won't indulge in cigarettes because I'm too broke to abuse the habit ($12+ in NYC for a pack!) and I can't delight in male attention unless the boy on the other end of the text message I just sent >insert guilty face here< chooses to entertain me and my insanity. So right now it's looking like it's just me, myself and I. What a horror. 

If I had ever been comfortable sitting in my own skin I might not have turned to the drink in the first place. But, again, this is something I don't have the emotional capacity to analyze. For now I'm just trying not to drink one hour at a time. Introspection is part of the recovery process, but I'll cross that bridge when I get there. And I am so not there. I can't even see the bridge on the horizon. 

I had a perfectly lovely afternoon. I went to a meeting, I lunched with my sister, I walked in the sunshine. But I still want more. I am desperate for more. More what, I don't know. But, like any good alcoholic, I want more more more more more until I am so full of more that I vomit. 

When I don't get more I start to get that unbearable feeling inside of me. Like the void is spreading from my heart to my stomach through my limbs and into my fingers and toes. It makes me want to Hulk out, rip off my skin, let out some sort of bellowing moan/scream/holler and bound through the streets. But that's not an option, so I just have to sit with it. And that is disappointing. Because sitting quietly through discomfort has never been on my To Do List. 

What is interesting is when that discomfort starts to manifest itself in other ways. Some examples? Well, there's the half pint of ice cream I tore through while I wrote the first half of this post. There are also the resentments I didn't know I had until this very moment and probably won't remember tomorrow. The desperation for a distraction of any sort. My increasingly heavy eye lids begging me to lie down, fall asleep and shut out the world even though I know I will wake up in an hour or two and be unable to sleep through the night as a result. Which means I will want to Hulk out at 3 a.m. when most sober women are asleep and I won't even be able to call someone who has more time than me to complain about my discomfort.  And, of course, there's the growing anger I feel toward the boy who hasn't responded to my text message. *Note: he has since responded to my text by telling me that he has "some poncey dinner party to attend tonight." I'll show him a f*cking poncey dinner party, that British bloke. Note to self: replace him with someone who gives me more attention. Even though I am completely aware that replacing booze with boys is incredibly unhealthy. Baby steps, right?

So it looks like I'll be sitting through the sh*t. Waiting for it to pass. But before I turn on trashy t.v. and polish off that pint of ice cream maybe I'll sign up for a knitting class. After  all, they say to pick up new hobbies in early sobriety. And knitting will keep my hands and mind busy. And if I didn't already feel as though I was growing up too fast by committing to AA and sobriety, why not ice the "I feel so much older than my peers" cake with a pair of knitting needles? Fabulous.