Non-Alcoholic

When I was in hospital for alcohol withdrawal, I was put on a drug called Campral.  This is supposed to stop all craving for alcohol and assist greatly in creating permanent abstinance, if taken for 2 years.

For the first few months I think it helped greatly. Over Christmas I thought more about drinking than at any other time since I quit. Wine and beer were everywhere.  I got through that, without much suffering at all, and I have had no desire to drink whatsoever.

So I gave up the Campral.  Part of the reason was that I hated having to be on a medication regime that included nineteen tablets a day (Campral alone was 6 a day).  The other was that I needed to know if I could do this on my own.

And you know what?  I can.  A whole month and not one desire to drink.

I haven't gone to AA because I reject totally the notion of giving myself over to a higher power.  I am the higher power. I am responsible for what I do or what I do not do.  If I am going to beat this, then I must do it. I must do it. Not a higher power. Not medications to change my brain even more.

So I'm doing it.

How about that?

Seventy-five

Milligrams, that is.

Not even halfway to the therapeutic dose.

And I appear to be awake and alive and this wont do at all because there is the fetal position to assume and the intrusive thoughts about how unfair it is that I have kids, because now I can't not be alive and I am trapped trapped trapped and none of it can be undone.

My brain needs to be occupied so as to avoid those nasty thoughts because being in that spiral will only lead to more madness. But really, I have been reduced to reading dooce, for fucks sake. Next stop, Cornflakes boxes.

Post-Stalker Quandry

Did I say quandry?

I meant "darkest pits of hell I just want to die because nothing is safe and what is the point in continuing I feel so disgusting I wish I could scrub this off me" despair.

The blackness descends again and again and again and nothing can lift it because there is nothing left that can give me any hope. 

This blog gave me hope. 

And now its gone.

And I am thrown between wanting desperately to be able to write my story in complete honesty so that one day my kids will know that mamma did everything possible to be a good mamma and when she fucked it up, this is why.  So that other people who are dealing everyday with the same fuckingshitsonofabitch nightmare of crazy that I deal with might have some microscopic sense of relief that they are not alone. So that when I write, what I write is on record, and I am therefore more accountable for my actions than if I wrote in seclusion.  Relapse is easier if the whole intertweebs dont know about it.

(Whole intertweebs. That is, all 10 of you.)

But, you know, evil narcissistic stalker.

How can I write anything about my children knowing that the crazy bitch I want to shield my children from is reading it all? After all, if I wanted her to have updates, I would be sending them to her. Which I am not. Because she is a psycho. An "under-the radar psycho" one of my friends called her, for on the outside she looks completely normal. But she's not.

What is the point in continuing to write when my voice has to be censored to protect my little family from unwanted intrusions?  What I write loses its meaning, loses its power and loses its ability to help anyone, myself most of all.

So I wonder and I feel sick to my stomach and I'm climbing back into bed and I dont know what to do because its all fucked up and all those painful moments of 3 years ago come flooding back and I rage and I know its about to get a whole lot worse because, hello, dosage increase tomorrow.

Advice, anyone? Because I am in no way capable of thinking clearly about this.

Dear Stalker (or, why you can fuck off now you crazy bitch)

Really, I should watch what I say, for it will surely come and bite me on the ass. A 24 hour turnaround is rather sudden ass-biting though.

I made a comment an another blog yesterday, about how I didnt care who read my blog because I didnt care what people thought.  This is true. I dont give a rats ass what you think of me. 

I *do* care, however, when someone I have deliberately and with good reason removed from my life somehow finds (or is given the address of - and I'm looking at you, other in-law family members) this blog and reads it. Silently. Like a stalker. With intent.

She's even reading it right now.  Yes, she is. Peering in through the windows from the bushes. Getting ready to phone me in a muffled voice and say "I know what you did last summer".

My mother in law.

In her narcissistic self-righteous wisdom, she decided 3 years ago that it was perfectly acceptable to take my children away from me, without my permission (I was begging you not to, do you remember that Anne?) and against my husbands express desires (he said only if I was completely ok with it, remember?)  And then, then, she refused to acknowledge that she had done anything wrong whatsoever. There was nothing to be discussed, nothing apologised for. 

After many attempts at resolution and much pain, we cut her out of our lives, out of our childrens lives, to protect ourselves from someone who didnt care about anyone but herself, didnt care how much hurt she caused others.  We have had no contact for 3 years, apart from unwanted cards arriving. Token jestures. The worst kind.

Today, an email arrives for my husband. "I've been reading Sharon's blog. Want to talk?"

My husband doesnt read my blog.   What the fuck makes you think its ok for YOU, of all people, to read it?

How long has this been going on, Anne? Have you gone through all the archives? Did you enjoy reading the bits about my cerivcal mucus when I was trying to conceive? What about Ella's birth story? Did it make you stop and think you could have been more supportive at the time?   Did you smirk to yourself when I was in hospital, detoxing from alcohol? Have your suspicions about my being an unfit mother, an unstable crazy woman, been confirmed by my ordeal on various medications for my "mental illness"? 

Did you read the bits about suicidal ideation and think letting me know via your son that you are reading this would push me over the edge?  Give you a window of opportunity? Are you salivating at the thought of a divorce? 

Does violating a person make you proud, make you feel good about yourself?  Because that is what you have done, as sure as a Peeping Tom violates the person they prey upon. Did you used to read your children's' diaries too? Open their mail?

You have violated me.  Again.  You took my children and now you have taken away the one thing in my life that was safe and good. 

Never again can I write in this blog, this sanctuary from the mess of my life, and be safe from the people who wish to do me harm. Maybe that is exactly what you want.

What possessed you to go down this road and read something that you know damn well I would never give you permission to read? What have you hoped to gain? That your son would suddenly forget everything you did and come back to the dysfunctional fold? 

ITS NOT GOING TO FUCKING HAPPEN.

You have gained nothing from your disclosure. You merely confirmed what we already knew about you. You will never get what you want. Never.

I might have a mental illness, but I'm not crazy.

Sleeping Angels

When my kids were babies, I did co-sleeping with them off and on as screaming dictated. I have such a clear memory of holding a tiny Felix, marveling at the smallness of his hands and wondering what those hands would grow up to do. I loved those co-sleeping moments.  I loved the mornings later on when they would be brought into bed first thing in the morning and we would breast feed.  Later on I loved it when they would wake up at sparrow fart and make their way groggily around to my side of the bed and climb in to finish their sleep off with the comfort of a mamma cuddle.

These days they dont do that. I think the days of the Seraquel Coma, of mamma being out of it until 10am, have meant they dont even think to do it anymore. In their minds, mamma just isn't available to them first thing in the morning. That we have lost that makes me sad.

I miss their bedtime cuddles so much. I want to kick the husband out of the bed and sleep with a kid either side of me. I want to revel in the smell of their hair, the softness of their skin and the complete openness and joy with which they snuggle up, tangling their limbs with mine so I no longer know where I stop and they start.  They are the reason I fight this damned illness every day, fight the desire to drink, find the will to eat and why I fight to stay alive. I need the close reassurance that comes from their peaceful breathing and an arm draped casually across my face to remind myself that I am needed here, and that by these two sleeping angels at least, I am loved.

The Fat Controller

zyprexa, as it is wont to do, had me put on 20 kilos in a few short months. After a week without it I have already lost the ravenous appetite that lead me to eat cream straight from the tub, and consequently I have lost my first kilo.

With it, I have regained that voice that says "you dont need to eat. ignore the hunger pangs. have another cup of tea."

That voice was quashed so very well by the zyprexa. As I piled on the kilos, it frightened me that I couldnt get that voice back, that I no longer had the ability to control my eating. Now, I am frightened that it has come back so quickly and so loud.

During this titration period with lamotrigine I have lost control of my mind so I guess it isn't surprising that my old friend Eating Disorder has come back, trying to controlling the one thing that is left.  At least I have the weight to lose this time.

So I sit here this morning, hungry. Nearing a blood sugar crash. And I allow myself one grape from our vine. That and another cup of tea will tide me over until dinner tonight.

The control freak is out of control again. I am at a loss as to how to stop.

Bed Goes Up, Bed Goes Down

A Simpsons' reference for every occasion, including me losing my tiny little mind.

I wake to blankness. Probably what the big wigs would call "loss of affect".  I feel nothing. I want nothing. I want no one. Leave me alone.

I spend the day flipping pages of magazines, just to give me something to focus on. Otherwise I will go back to bed and stare out the window. I am so tired.  Eventually I feel so disconnected I cant do that anymore, and I return to bed. I feel panic. I claw at my own skin. The voices start, telling me how hopeless it is. This illness, this medication, my life. Panic heightens when I think of being like this for weeks as I get up to a stable dose on this new med. I am nauseous, I want to run, I want to scream. I do scream, but it is the scream in my belly that no one can hear.

And then I am calm. Like that. Nothing has happened to induce this change. I am feeling almost normal. But the racing thoughts, they intrude. A thousand different thoughts all at once. So many that I can barely pull them apart to think them clearly. I am awake. Wide awake. Awake and yet unable to motivate myself to do anything. I have a desperate need to communicate yet I do not want to see or talk to anyone.

I have ignored my children all day. They come to visit me and want to know why I am always in bed. "Mummy doesn't feel well" is so insufficient. 

Eventually it is time for sleep and by this time I am wired but still without motivation or desire. Temazepam I hope will be my saviour tonight.

Tomorrow I do it all again. This is the world of starting on Lamotrigine.

This Time Fer Shure

And now for the newest poison on the block, Lamotrigine.

An anti-epileptic, known overseas (and sporadically known here) for its kickass ability to knock the crap out of Bipolar Depression. Not known at all by my gp and she is letting me try it at my extreme insistence. 

Also known for its ability to give users The Rash, aka Stevens-Johnson Syndrome, which leaves the skin as if it had been badly burned, and it can be fatal. So we have to titrate veerrryyy slooowwwllly.

What this means is that the former anti-psychotic Zyprexa is no longer in my system and I am now on such a piddling dose of Lamotrigine that it couldn't cheer up a dung beetle in a pile of dung.

I feel like whale shit at the bottom of the ocean. I am walking through molasses. I hate everything. I don't want to be around anyone. Bed is nice. The drug has buggered my sleep pattern so I am awake at night and exhausted all day. I consider what it would be like it I weren't around anymore,  The whole being trapped fiasco is making the suicidal ideation recur. I see no point to anything.

How long am i supposed to just live with this? Slow titration is one thing, but living with The Awful Blackness as a consequence just ain't right. Should I be sucking this up and riding it out or admitting myself to hospital for some additional medicinals to keep me on the living side of this hell?

My brain is so adrift I cant answer that question.

Excess Baggage

If I were to get a divorce (might happen), and heaven for-fend I should meet someone else that I liked (wont happen) should I just get them to read this blog first?

Who can be bothered rehashing all this dross that I carry around in my head, let alone trying to get someone new to understand it and then to accept the person it belongs to?  "You want a date? Here's the dossier. Still interested?"

If I knew all these things about a prospective partner, I would run a mile.

This is not where my life was supposed to go. I was not supposed to get to 8 years of marriage and not want to be here anymore. I certainly wasn't supposed to get to this point and have no freaking options about how this gets played out.  Feeling trapped like this makes me want to puke.

Stating The Bleeding Obvious

Joint shrink session today, me and hubby.

Full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

"Thou must have nought to do with the other!" cried the shrink.

Nice to have someone official-like to confirm my thoughts on the matter, but where exactly will I find a full-time live-in carer?  Its all very well spouting "best interests" blah blah, but I still need someone to pick me up off the floor when my back slips out and I cant move for two weeks, or look after the kids when I'm suddenly comatose from my medications.

Its a fucked situation here and no one's best interests are being looked after and, short of a live-in minion, I cant see how that is ever going to change.

I should have listened to my mother when she told me, age 8, to never get married.

The Drink You Have When You Cant Have A Drink

June  7^th it was. Now its January 9^th. That makes it 6 months.

6 months sober. I could have sworn it was longer.

Over the holidays I’ve discovered the joy of “alcohol removed” wines. They taste like shit compared to real wine. What do you expect really when they remove all the fun from the bottle? I balk at spending twice what I paid per bottle at Dan Murphy’s but nevertheless, for a special occasion such as Festivus one must be seen to be partaking in the jolliness of it all.

As things do, it made me think: at what point is it ok for me to have a glass of champers to celebrate something special?  When can I enjoy a couple of refreshingly cold ciders on a hot summer’s day? Is 6 months too soon?  Is ever too soon?  Am I the alcoholic who can never ever touch another drop or its straight back to 2 bottles a night again? Or am I the alcoholic who can drink occasionally, but responsibly?

How do you tell which you are?

Coz I really really want that cold cider.

Stares At Screen Blankly

We now resume our normal broadcast.

Within 24 hours of stopping the Lithium, I could function normally. No more catatonia! conversations! Ability to write!

It didnt last long.

Lithium was followed by Seroquel. Hello zombie-world! Now I can enjoy 16 hours a day of zombification! How useful when you have two young children. Doubly useful when your husband has a hernia operation sprung on him and suddenly I am the one who has to do everything.  If it werent for the wonderful parents at my son's school, he wouldnt have got to school at all for 6 weeks coz mummy was still comatose.

So I kicked Seroquel in the arse and picked up a shiny little hussy called zyprexa. This one promised the world, and for a while it delivered, in the form of a nice little mania which helped the saucepans shine like never before and lots of baking got done. Baking? Are you fucking kidding me? I hate baking.

Of course, there was something zyprexa forgot to mention during the honeymoon phase, and that is how I would turn into a giant tub of lard. Lardy McLardarse, eating her way through the kitchen then baking some more goodies when all else is gone. 20kg I've put on.

20kg.

If you're new here, you might want to read this post to discover how utterly diabolical it is that I of all people have not been able to control my eating to the point of putting on twenty.fucking.kilos.

I've tried sodium valproate for pain relief before and the "dry mouth", well it literally glued my mouth shut.

So what next? Tuesday will tell. I've been stuck on zyprexa over the holidays until my gp comes back and I'm steadily feeling worse. Now I am back in the throes of depression, hiding myself away and staring blankly out windows. Where did my happy mania go?

What will be thrown at me this time? I want to try Lamotrigine but its not on the PBS and I figure that means there is no way I can afford it. Some other zombifying, obesity-inducing poison?

This really is shit.

How was your spring?

The Drugs Dont Work, They Just Make Things Worse

I doubt The Verve were singing about Lithium, but they may as well have been.

Tomorrow I see my gp to tell her I Say NO to Lithium. 

I have only become able to write now through taking a Lorazepam about an hour ago. Prior to that, I was (literally) catatonic much of the day, unable to move or communicate, with strange thoughts like just getting in the car and driving off, taking all the kids' money out of the bank, and not coming back. Ever. (Slight problem: I cant drive.)  I dont want to see people, I dont want to talk to people. Especially my kids. Their incessant noise makes me want to scream and kill kittens.

I cant live like this. I have no idea what is going on. Reaction to Lithium? Has it tipped me over into some strange Bipolar 2 mixed state? Am I NOT Bipolar at all and Lithium is making me crazy?


This drug-induced nightmare, whatever its genesis, has got to end. I was supposed to see my GP next Monday anyway, but the way I have been feeling I cant be sure I would be around by then.  Life was a lot easier when I was drinking all the time. How is this better? How can these effects of medication be better than being mellow on wine?

Fuck. I have felt shit since I stopped drinking and now its worse instead of better.  Did I kill the baby jesus in my past life?

Has anyone else ever experienced horrendous side effects from the meds that were supposed to keep them safe and sane?

Lithium, Thy Name Is...um...(hang on, I know this)

I am cotton wool brain.

I am thoughts stuck in a whirlpool unable to get out.

I am words on the tip of my tongue.

I am apathy.

I am lead.

I am sleep.

I am nothing.

Eating Your Self

When I was a kid, I was tall and skinny. My long legs meant I could run faster than any of the other kids and hence always won the 100m races at school.   My only body-image issues were related to the size of my boobs (bloody small) and my nose (big)

As I got older, my body changed shape, as it does when you're female, but I was essentially still tall and thin. The boobs and the nose stubbornly refused to change at all, sadly

I fluctuated somewhere around size 12-14 for all of my adult life.

Then at 32 my life imploded.  A Restraining Order to get my violent ex out of my house was followed a few days later by a sexual assault courtesy of two "friends."

What my traumatised brain did was amazing, truly amazing. Never underestimate the ability of your brain to fuck you over.

While everything around my in my life was out of control, my brain decided there was something it could control, and that was what went into my mouth. Or rather, what didn't. This was all totally subconscious. It wasn't until years later that I realised what I had actually done.

I didn't eat. If I felt hungry I had a cigarette. (I was smoking a pack of 25 36mg cigarettes a day) I drank alcohol, but not a huge amount. I took crystal meth. I took ecstasy. I smoked marijuana. (I am really not expecting to ever work again, obviously.)

When I was at home, which wasn't often, I would drink Multi-V Juice and eat an English muffin with raspberry jam and cream. That was it. That was all I could afford to buy, since my drug bill was so high each week.

In about 2 months I went from a healthy 70kg down to 56kg. From a Size 14 to a size 8.  

I didn't realise what was happening to my body until I had been at that game for about 7 months. I looked in the mirror, and I saw, really saw, what had happened.

The collar bones jutting out. The ribs clearly visible. My wrists, bony. My hips...god my hips...and my pelvis clearly visible, I looked like someone from a POW camp.

This realisation came at the same time as my creditors raised their hands and demanded their money; the money I had spent on drugs instead of giving to them. So instantly, the lifestyle had to change. I had to work. I got hungry and couldn't just smoke it away, I actually had to eat.

Two months later I met my husband. I look at photos from then and I am appalled at my appearance.  I still own a skirt that I purchased the day I met MonkeyBoy. I hold it up to myself now and cannot fathom the mind that thought it was ok for me to fit into that skirt.

What I think happened is this: I never looked at myself and thought I was fat, so it never occurred to me that I had an eating disorder. I never threw up my food, so I never had an eating disorder.  And I didn't strive to be like the waif-thin models that were - and sadly 10 years later still are - everywhere.

But there are more ways to have a disorder than just Bulimia and Anorexia. It doesn't just have to be about not wanting to be fat. And I want you, dear reader, to understand that. If I had known that, or others had known that, maybe there would have been some sort of intervention sooner, before it had serious health consequences.

There are more than just two ways to kill yourself by not eating.

****

My daughter is 3 this week. I already talk to her and my 5 year old son about these images, and describe the women as unhealthy, and how the images have been changed to make them look very different.

We have to start talking to our children about these things when they are so young to get the positive messages cemented in their subconscious so they never ever look at magazines images like these and think they are normal. So that they are happy with how their own bodies look.

What their brains do after that, god knows.  I hope their brains are kinder to them than mine was to me.

Forty-two

• Its statistically half way through my life.¹
• It is the angle in degrees for which a rainbow appears.²
• It is the height in inches of unicorns.³
• It is the answer to life, the universe and everything.⁴ 

 

Image credit

 

It is also the birthday I celebrate today.

I'm disgusted to discover I am now officially middle-aged. When the fuck did that happen? Its amazing how much I don't want to bound out of bed and greet the world after having that particular thought.  I suppose I could celebrate being 21 again. The first time round it involved the biggest joint I've ever seen as my birthday present. Perfectly sound idea! Yes!

All told, its a Significant Birthday. When you add in recent events - giving up alcohol, getting a diagnosis - then it is even more significant. Today marks the start of the transition from the first half of my life to the second, and - I think, I hope - the transition from traumatised, non-functional Sharon to self-aware, happy and emotionally stable Sharon.  I am only 3 years away from the age both my brothers were when they committed suicide and I feel that acutely. I don't want to still be struggling with my mental health to that extent in three years. There will be struggles, that is a given: Bipolar is a lifelong condition, and there will be lifelong struggles. But what I hope to do in this second phase of my life, is to discover what it is that gives my life meaning.

When I was in second year Philosophy at university, I wrote a paper which stated categorically that the meaning of life for humans is to ask what the meaning of life is. To some extent, I still stand by what I said then, but I have learned enough now to know that we humans can find meaning for our lives in the pursuit of what makes us happy. Happy...happiness. It's a concept foreign to me, that's for sure, but  armed with the right medications, the right diagnosis and the right choices I might just be able to find that spark of happiness. 

It is immeasurably sad that at 42 I don't know what true happiness is. 

What I do know is that now I have a chance to finally figure it out. 

That almost makes up for the "middle-aged" tag.




1. a bunch of statisticians
2. some maths nerds and god
3. me. probably not true
4. bow down and worship Douglas Adams

The One Where I Get A New Label

Psychiatrists suck.

Psychologists suck.

Not all of them, granted.  There are some out there who do their jobs properly.  I met one psychiatrist the other day who seemed quite competent at diagnosing someone.  I also have a great psychologist who does what she is supposed to do, namely challenge thoughts and behaviors and help me live my life better.

But the rest - and there have been many - that I have seen since I was 19, well they can all bite my shiny metal ass. (erm...)  How can that many shrinks of one variety or another and that many GPs (also lots) miss something like Bipolar?

Bipolar 2 Disorder.  Bipolar Lite, if you will, which means I'm not about to spend the family fortune, shag everyone I meet nor will I talk a thousand words per minute and think I am Jeebus. But I will visit the deepest darkest pits of hell of depression and be serious about others being better off if I weren't here. I will also have amazing ideas for projects that take up all of my time every day, that I am not physically capable of doing, and no one else seems quite as enthusiastic about it as me...

My psychologist made me do a test. I love doing test. Love.them.  This one was an hour-long online assessment through the Black Dog Institute. It took an hour to complete, and I didn't need the whole hour to realise into which box my answers would be fitting.

My score:

• 30 out of a possible 30 for Depression (still? really? shit)
• 24 out of a possible 24 for Functional Impairement (that's some fucked up functioning)
• Severe PTSD
• Moderate Anxiety Disorder
• Moderate Social Phobia
• Moderate Panic Disorder

Diagnosis: Bipolar Disorder

When I saw the psychiatrist last Friday for a full assessment, the online assessment was confirmed and I was advised to start taking the mood stabiliser par excellence Lithium and the anti-psychotic Seroquel.

Tonight I have popped my first Lithium, and so begins the new med-go-round. I hope this doesn't play out like the trial and error of getting my pain management right. I don't want to waste another two years of my life trialling meds before I am stable.  I have lost so much time already from not being properly diagnosed when the Bipolar first appeared when I was 14.  I dont want to dwell on how different my life would be had I been treated then.  I want this diagnosis to play a positive role in my life now.

I now have a label on which to hang many things from my past. I have a way of making sense of things that seemed nonsensical. Nothing in me has changed. My behaviour hasn't changed, or not until the Lithium kicks in anyways. I'm still the lovable nutbag I was last Thursday. Its just that now I come with a label attached, one that is valuable and beneficial as far as my treatment, future happiness and understanding of my self goes.

It is unfortunate that with this label comes society's prejudices, assumptions and negative ideas about Bipolar.   And with those comes the likelihood of being discounted or dismissed because I'm manic (even when I'm not) or as just another nutter who doesn't have anything to contribute (when I do), or as someone whose friendship may be too difficult to manage (I'm harmless, promise).

The trick for me now is to concentrate on the benefits of knowing what is wrong with me my condition is.  That's a hard trick for me to learn, since I have spent most of my life being told I am worthless, but it is one I must learn.

Fuck the haters, right?

Image credit

It's my 42nd birthday in two days and I'll be happy about being Bipolar if I want to.

Lush Life

I suffer from Seasonal Affective Disorder dreadfully.  I do exceptionally well on lovely sunny days and want to kill kittens on miserable overcast days.  I'm a "Fuck winter in the ear" kinda girl. Today, despite being at the "ear-fucking" end of winter, was a remarkably lovely, sunny day.  I should have been hugging trees and singing The Hills Are Alive.  But no.

Whether it was just being tired from pushing myself in the garden yesterday while weeding the Pits Of Blackberry Hell or being fed up with Ella being so needy or really enjoying the relative silence of only one kid at home then noticing it shatter at 3.40pm or being reminded by the lovely-sunny-day-with-a-light-breeze that this would be a great day for a cider in the sunshine...well, whatever it was, today I really needed a drink.  Not just noticing that I would normally have a drink at this time or in this spot, or being reminded every time I take the Camparal (to stop the cravings) that I dont drink anymore. No no.

This was: "I.Want.A.Drink.Now!"

"This will pass this will pass this will eventually pass," the voice in my head repeated. There is no alcohol in our house so there was thankfully nothing I could do about it. And it did pass. And I fell asleep straight after dinner.

But not before I realised how precarious my sobriety is. 50-something days. 57 I think .(I'm too tired to do the math.) 57 days is nothing, not compared to over 1000 days of drinking to excess. Not compared to the 365 days I have to take the Camparal to ensure I am not going to go back to being a Lush.

I have made progress, absolutely, but it could be undone in the blink of an eye because I realised that if I'd had access to a refreshing cider or a lovely fruity Sav Blanc I would have had one. And then I would have had more.

I realised that there is no "I'll just have one" for me.  I realised that my alcohol dependance was not just about self-medication for pain that got out of hand.

I realised that I cannot stop at just one, and I never could. I am an addict, which is a very different beast to someone who was "just" physically dependant.

There is so much more work to be done here that I realised.

There is also a story to be told about my visit to the psychiatrist but it is a story that I can't quite bring myself to write yet.  In time.  Soon maybe, even.

Once I'm over the desire to drink again. 

The Ties That Bind

Hope.

It has been my life-raft for the last three years.

After events of this week, it is fair to say that I am now treading water on my own.

I feel physically ill thinking about it. Not by the loss of hope, but by the situation I find myself in once hope has gone.

I am trapped in this dysfunctional mind, trapped in this broken and pain-ridden body, trapped in this relationship and in this house in a volatile situation. I am in a box within a box within a box and it doesn't matter how much I might scream no one can hear me and no one can help. I am suffocating in here and the one person who can do something about it refuses.

Here I am again, powerless.  (Yes, actually powerless, unless I want to lose my kids.)  I'm wondering how I managed to subconsciously see this in someone who was so totally different 9 years ago.  I must have, because I can pick 'em every time. No matter the beginning to the relationship, the ending is always the same. My programming has been impeccable.

I am so well programmed from my childhood to live this situation again and again. To accept it, to see it as normal. Nothing was ever done in my childhood until things had reached boiling point and there was violence. It was even made my responsibility to deal with it. Thanks for that, mum. 

And yet now I do not accept it and I do not see it as normal. I see it as chronically abusive but I know there is no help, there is no way out until we get to the crisis and by then the damage is done. I have been here before.

No two year old should have to hold her mother's tear-stained face in her hands and say "Its alright mummy, don't you listen to him."

image copyright Emmy Ryan

I don't want to know what's next after that. For there will be a "next."

There always is.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

A wonderful friend of mine has been here this week helping me out.

She asked Felix if he thought mummy had changed at all since coming home from hospital.

I immediately stopped what I was doing because it had never occurred to me to ask him, and I desperately wanted to hear what the answer was.

Thank god he chose the correct answer and agreed I was less grouchy and more relaxed. Possibly he thought his pocket money depended on the answer he gave.

For a while I haven't felt any better, any different at all. Just weird, uncomfortable, out of place.

People tell me I look great.  That's nice to hear.

I look in the mirror and my skin looks clearer, less muddied.  That's nice to see.

I hang out with my kids and play board games.  I wouldn't have done that before. Board games? Are you kidding me?  I do stuff in the garden; just weeding but weeding is my zen, my state of peace. There is nothing but me and the weed and the dirt and the sun on my back or the wind in my hair.
 

Gettin' my zen on. Image from here

I do these things and I realise I am getting better.   That is rather wonderful to feel.

I am 50 days sober today.

That is freakin' awesome to know.