Turns out I've been ensnared in Addiction
~There is no greater misery than false joys~
-Bernard of Clairvaux
In my last writing, I told you that I never quite fit in. That I was always aware of some level of force or extra effort when elbowing my way into a social group. The people in my world who have known me over the past decade may find this hard to reconcile because, genuinely, I love people. I connect with others easily and I've honestly never been shy. What my friends and family can't know is that I've lived my life as a shape shifter. A chameleon. I've been so wholly desperate for a sense of belonging with others that I've abandoned myself entirely. After years of stifling myself, I no longer have a grasp of who I really am.
I've spent the first half of my life, flitting from group to group trying on the personnas that seemed to be required for entry. Ok, sure-I'll like the Red Hot Chili peppers too. Shivering in the cold in February to raise a cigarette to my lips, stifling my cough and distaste for it was a small price to pay to be one of the cool kids. I've claimed a Christian spirit simply because the church kids have to let you in- it's one of Jesus's rules. I've laughed at jokes I don't get or, worse, am deeply offended by. I've spouted off trash and poison that I'm now horrified by, just to avoid having to stand alone. In my teenage years, I placed value on being what Cosmopolitan told me was sexy and desirable. I not only bought the lipstick they advertised, but worse, I bought into the advice they printed about sex and womanhood- advice that only ever catered to what men wanted. I bounced from boy to boy through highschool so that I could feel pretty, wanted and worst of all WORTHY of someone's time and attention. I never questioned what the world seemed to demand of me. I believed in my heart of hearts that if I checked off everyone's boxes all of the time for all of my life, I would have the kind of life that others would say was successful. I lived my life with a to-do list metaphorically gripped in my sweaty hands.
1) Achieve a post-secondary education
2) Build a career
3) Hook myself a man. (Sidenote- tall, dark, funny and financially literate) Get him to put a ring on it so there's no backing out when he realizes what a flaky space cadet I am. Haha, sucker.
4) Own a house
5) Make the babies
6) Devote myself to motherhood
Well, check and check. Done, I guess. Each item has been achieved and you know what? It's a nice life. But now what? Now, I'm mid-life I suppose. I mean, 40. Isn't that when men in the movies fuck their secretaries and buy a sports car?
My midlife crisis isn't a crisis though-it's a recovery. It's the recovery of myself at least 30 years after abandoning her to please everyone else. It's unclenching my fists and letting that metaphorical list of requirements slip away. It's looking up from the list and away from the eyes of everyone else and asking myself what I want the second half of my life to look like. It's forcing myself to sit still for 15 minutes at the ass crack of dawn each morning, in guided meditation. Knowing that this kind of hokey bullshit may be the only way back to myself. My recovery means learning how to sit with myself after a life of employing EVERY possible distraction to avoid seeing myself. One distraction in particular has proven more damaging than others.
I grew up in the home of Irish immigrants. Many Saturday nights, my house was banging with gales of laughter from the basement as my parent's Irish friends played guitar, danced, told filthy jokes and got blitzed. If not in my own home, my brother and I were lifted, sleeping, from the backseat of our car and carried to our beds after our parents had partied with the Irish eejits in someone else's house. My dad drank regularly and while it's tempting to keep this part of myself quiet and bound up to protect my father's pride, I can't do that a moment longer. I was traumatized on many occassions by events that happened directly because of my dad's drinking. In childhood, I learned that we're only a breath away from disaster, I'm never safe and the other shoe could drop at any minute. You'd think that being pained by a parents drinking would turn someone to the opposite direction but that's not the case for me.
Every movie I watched showed adults unwinding at the end of the day with a generous pour. Every adult I'd ever known drank to let loose and have fun. Beer commercials in the 80's and 90's sold me a vision of friendship and happy memories through raising a glass together. I'd heard sayings like "You can't trust a teetotaler". These ideas about alcohol were true for me, another belief chiseled into the core of myself, unquestionable.
As my undiagnosed ADD partied with my anxiety disorder, I went on to have babies that rocked my soul into new levels of fear and worry. At every well-baby check-up with my family doctor, I smiled and repeated how well I was doing. "No, doc, I don't need a thing- my life is picture perfect and I'm just so dang happy". I'd shape shifted into a Stepford Wife and, while I gritted my teeth through dark intrusive thoughts, there was this fun new club catching on in North American culture. Mommy Wine Culture. Guys, this was it. Phew! Turns out all I needed was a glass of Merlot at the end of the day. Afterall, I'd earned it, right? It made sense now, ALL moms needed wine to persevere through the never ending demands of mothering. To finally shake off the endless touching, questioning, tantrums, diaper changes, decision making and never ending worrying at the end of the day. I was normal, just like every other tired mama. I took comfort in this and welcomed a glass of wine every evening once the kids were in bed. Over time, I'd have a glass while cooking dinner too. Then a glass when the kids went down. Then a glass when I finally got to watch my fave TV show. As the years stretched on, I'd be driving home from work, fixated on pouring a glass the second I walked in. Sometimes, I hadn't taken my shoes off or set down my purse yet. I started looking forward to my small token of self-reward by 4pm each day, then it was 3pm. I was managing my drinking during the week but the weekends would come and I'd feel social. My friends are drinkers. We'd get together for dinner and drinks and I began losing time. Black outs became pretty ordinary. I'd wake up the next morning with no recollection of getting to bed. No recollection of seeing my kids off to sleep.Anxious about what I might have said and to who. Still, and prepare yourself for this, I wasn't convinced this had become a problem in my life. My career was thriving! I'd just been hired for my dream position. I wasn't missing work, I wasn't in trouble with the law, my husband was always forgiving and even laughed it off at times. My girlfriends assured me that I wasn't up to anything the rest of modern women weren't doing. I felt relief and I just kept going. If you're expecting a rock bottom here, you may be surprised. I hit what should have been "rock bottom" on a HANDFUL of occassions. Things I've done while drunk that should have slapped me upside the head and woken me up to the harm I was causing myself and my family. But no. I'd laugh about my misadventures and joke that "if drinking is wrong, I don't wanna be right!"
Now, I'm going head to head with an alcohol addiction. I see it for what it is now. An addiciton to a harm causing substance. I'm learning who I actually am-no more shape shifting, no more performing, no more lying, no more pouring booze over the small voice inside to silence her. I'm going toe to toe with Merlot and I'm going to win.
In other news, I fucking hate the Red Hot Chili Peppers.
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