There was something unnerving about the way I reveled in my pain.
Alcohol allowed me to reside there permanently.
Tag: addiction
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6:44am
and I’m crying my poor little heart out because I want a drink or 12 with an intensity I haven’t felt in some time.
Crying because I want to throw away the last 48 days for a fucking 6-pack before it’s even 7am.
Because I want to hold onto the last 48 days more than I’ve ever wanted something in my life.
Because I know I won’t drink, and that I just have to feel this shitty gnawing inside for as long as it lasts.
I want to take the easy way out right now, but my brain won’t let me fuck up and I’m pissed as hell about it.
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Detox (6.11.22 – 6.16.22)
Sweaty, so sweaty.
And oh, how I shake, from the inside out.
I’ve had one 24oz beer in twelve hours. My body tells me this is unacceptable. Every inch of me aches and trembles and screams for alcohol, and I’m excruciatingly sober for it all.
My shaking hands, balled into fists because electrolytes do not exist in my body, can’t grasp the pen long enough to initial the paperwork in front of me. There are pen marks all over the paper where I’ve tried and tried, imploring my hands to work for a single fucking second. My tears are hot and frustrated and I throw the pen across the table. I miss and it hits the wall before my mother picks it up and places it back in front of me.
My roommate is here, in this admissions room with my mother and me. He wraps his hands around my clenched fists and guides them on the paper, marking something that vaguely resembles an X on the signature line. It’ll have to do. We repeat this action for a hundred bajillion more forms and disclaimers and releases, me sobbing hysterically the entire time.
“I can’t do this,” I cry to nobody in particular, knowing damn well I will do it because I’m out of options.
“You can, and you will.” My mom is seated across from me. She’s seen me in pretty bad shape, but nothing could’ve prepared her for the frenzied, vibrating chaos in front of her. I wish I could’ve spared her this part of myself. “Breathe,” she says worriedly. “You’re not breathing.”
I’m not breathing because breathing is dangerous; just the thought of doing it repeatedly makes me nauseous. I take one small hesitant breath and immediately dry-heave into the brown paper bag at my feet. I bury my head in it and squeeze my eyes shut real tight, like I did when I was a little girl in uncomfortable situations.
The sad sack is the hospital’s mental-health friendly version of a trash can. They’re scattered throughout the units. I don’t know how one would commit suicide with a trash can, but I suppose you could get a few good whacks in on someone else with one if you were so inclined. Nothing in this building is sharp or easily picked up or possesses the ability to form a noose. Even the shower curtains are designed to withstand the most steadfast attempt to take one’s own life. My roommate is on suicide watch. The door must remain open at all times and we’re both under constant supervision.
I’m not suicidal though, unless you count my raging alcoholism as the slow descent into nonexistence that it is. I’m here to medically detox off booze before I check myself into inpatient rehab in a few days.
My hair is matted against my forehead from sweat that drips down into my already watering eyes, runs down my clammy cheeks, comes to rest on my lips. The taste of my sweat makes me gag again, but still nothing comes up. It wouldn’t, I haven’t consumed anything apart from rotgut vodka and countless Dos Equis in the last five days. I lean back in my rather uncomfortable chair, shaking in my entirety, my bones creaking and twisting, my sobs growing increasingly louder by the second.
The nurses come back to check my blood alcohol content. Zero point zero. The beer this morning seems like a lifetime ago. I want an Ativan. I need an Ativan. I ask, sniffling, if I’m getting an Ativan soon. I’m assured I will be “given something for my discomfort very shortly.” I want to scream at them, throw my stupid paper bag at their heads.
Three hours, a 45-minute EKG, and a thiamine shot that hurt like hell later, I’m finally given one minuscule pill that I’m told is Ativan, with permission to go to my room and lay down. I give the woman behind the counter an incredulous stare. I consider myself well-versed in pharmacology, being a big fan of using drugs, and I am doubtful as to what I’m holding. I’m also quite sure that whatever measly dose they’ve given me isn’t going to do the trick. I want to be unconscious. I do not wish to suffer through the hell I know lies ahead.
She assures me it’s Ativan, makes no attempts to throw in a couple extra. I realize my brain isn’t functioning properly due to withdrawal, pop the pill, and plod down the hall to my new room in laceless shoes, a grape Gatorade dangling from one clasped hand.
The alkies get as much Gatorade as they want whenever they want, a fact that stirs resentment among those not there for wildly excessive drinking. We also get benzos every two hours if we show even the slightest hint of discomfort. I don’t have to try to pretend I’m in a waking nightmare. My blood pressure is in the hypertensive crisis range as my body realizes what I’ve done and loses its fucking mind trying to function without any booze in it. It’s so high that my vision is affected. I can’t control my eye movements and everything is blurred around the edges. I collapse on the bed and the blur creeps towards the center and overtakes me. I sleep.
Ativan. Sleep. Ativan. Sleep. Ambien. Sleep. This is how I spend most of my first two days until I see the doctor Sunday afternoon. Ten minutes later I step out of his office with a diagnosis for PTSD and an rx for one antidepressant and one antipsychotic.
Ativan. Zoloft. Abilify. Ativan. Ativan. Ativan. Ativan. Ativan. Ambien. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.
Thursday morning. I emerge. A parking lot, sunshine beaming down at me, warming and welcoming and encouraging me. My mother’s parked a few feet away, playing on her phone, totally unaware of her surroundings. She screams when I open the door. I grin big, a genuine smile. “Let’s go,” I tell her. “I have a rehab to get to!”
I don’t look back as we drive away. I don’t need to. I’ll never forget what it felt like sitting in that little admissions room withdrawing my ass off, praying that God or whoever would end my misery and take me right then, praying that God or whoever would spare my life and let me live through the next few days.
I lived. I’m still living, more so each day.
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From 5.1.22
I will no longer hold precious space in my heart for anyone who doesn’t also hold the same place in theirs for me.
Playing the victim is leading me nowhere except an early grave from substance abuse.
I was a victim but I don’t have to continue to stay in that position. From here on out, I will try my best to address my traumas in only healthy ways to give myself the chance at life that I deserve, instead of engaging in dangerous coping mechanisms that are only fleetingly self-serving, but will happily see me lowered into the ground before I hit 35.
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No, the dates aren’t backwards.
Alcoholism is just a sneaky deceitful bitch that will break you down completely in what feels like a second, but was actually the last decade of your life.
2012: “I am happy now, yes, but I am also sad and confused and still searching. I can’t tell you that, typing this, I am completely okay with my sobriety or that it is always easy. It is never easy; on the contrary, sometimes it is the most difficult thing I have ever had to do. But it is better than going back to the self-destruction that I set out to accomplish before. It is better than drinking.”
— It’s always better than drinking.2021: I relapsed on December 12th and spent that whole week drinking mercilessly. I became a monster, screaming in the faces of people I loved, almost physically aggressive at one point. Cops were called multiple times over domestic altercations. Everything I’d been storing up in the ol’ resentment jar labeled ‘Mom’ got thrown in her face. [I’ll write about that in the future – my behavior was so shameful that thinking about it makes me actively want to hurt myself, and self-harm has never been an issue for me. For now, I’ll just say I’m lucky she didn’t hit me or call the police on me herself. Had I been her, I would’ve done both of those things, in that order, because I deserved them.]
I am terrified of who I became that week.
Terrified of a next time and who I’ll be then.
Terrified I’ll destroy myself and the people that I love and the little else that I love and have left as of this writing.
Terrified of myself.
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little fragments
My coworker’s truck in front of my house, while he counts out Adderall for me. I am probably 9 beers in. It’s 11am on a Tuesday. Maybe Thursday. He asks how I’m doing, but it’s rhetorical. I am obviously not doing great. He hands my pills over and before he drives away, he says “and stop fucking drinking, goddamn.”
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accountability
I have to always be honest or there’s no point to any of this. I relapsed for a week from Sunday, 12.12, to Saturday, 12.18. Last drink at 7am that morning.
Learning from it and moving on – new sobriety date of 12.19.21 and plenty of lessons learned along the way.
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little fragments
Day two of my 2nd stint in rehab, morning meditation
A counselor is making his way through the great room, to the podium in the center, when he stops directly in front of me. Somehow recognizes me from my IOP program there five years earlier. Good memory. I can’t imagine how many clients have come and gone (and come and gone and come and gone).
I remember him too and I am sleep deprived and substance free against my will. No mood for whatever sarcastic shit I’m about to hear.
“What the fuck are you doing back here, Kirsten? Not enough fun for you the first time around?” I feel like this is a stupid question that deserves a stupid answer.
“Can’t seem to quit fucking my life up. It’s this goddamn booze. You guys gonna fix me this time?”
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hi, hello
i hate writing about myself but since this is the first post, i guess it’s expected. i mainly started this blog to have somewhere i could write about my struggles with alcohol and sobriety, but also as a general holding place for the shit that goes through my head.
i’m 28 and my life for the most part has been wonderful, until my sudden and rapid descent into alcoholism in my early 20s. in the last 8 years, my addiction has singlehandedly fucked up my entire life.
i won’t go into too much detail because i was a really, really shitty person up until a few months ago. suffice it to say, i put my addiction before anything else in my life and subsequently lost nearly everything i hold dear.
i’m arguably still shitty in other ways, namely being entirely too self-absorbed, totally unmotivated 85% of the time, and my decidedly unhealthy relationships with men.
i really am trying to be a decent human being these days, and i hope this blog will help me in achieving that goal.
I too am not a bit tamed—I too am untranslatable 