25 Apr

Welcome to my blog, Sobrietease.   People have been telling me for quite some time that I should start a blog.  So here I am.  Doing it.  Won’t be perfect.  If I wait for that, it will never happen.  So bear with me as I write, post, share, confess and, well, blog.

Why this blog?  I’m just your average 43-year old suburban mom.  But I have stories to share and lessons to pass on. Many of them not so average.  My problems are no more or less significant than anyone else’s–we all have our crosses to bear.   I think it is how I have chosen to deal with mine that is worth sharing.  Most helpful of all, laughter helps me through the difficult and dark times.  I have been given an incredible opportunity—a second chance to live out the rest of my life in much happier and much better way.  My hope is that you will find something somewhere one day in my blog that will strike a chord with you and help you in some way to find yourself in a happier, better place too.

As they say, laugher is the best medicine.  It is my new addiction.  It may seem heartless to laugh at or mock some of life’s most serious trials and tribulations.  What’s the alternative?  I’ve tried pulling the covers over my head and hiding in my bed, several times.  I always have to come out for one reason or another.  I’ve tried “sweeping” everything under the carpet.  Works great for a while, until the pile of crap that has been swept under the carpet gets too large to hide under there any more and explodes.  I’ve tried to blame others or the circumstances or the way that the planets were aligned at that particular time.   I’ve tried to alter my perception of reality.  That worked the best.  For a long, long time.  And then I woke up and realized that it was, in fact, the worst.

Drinking was a blast.  It was a way of everyday life.  To me, it was right up there with  eating and breathing.  Every function, event, celebration, win, loss, mourning, chore, meeting, discussion, creative endeavor, relaxation, motivation… name it, was not only conducive to drinking, it was centered around it.  I was pretty much a happy drunk.  Life of the party (or at least I thought I was).  With the first sip, my inhibitions and insecurities started to wash away.  If one sip allowed that deep exhale of self-doubt and self-loathing to begin to seep out, more sips could only widen the opening and facilitate the escape.  That warm, fuzzy feeling came quickly.   Not far behind was the ability to throw care to the wind–the “fuck it” period as I liked to call it.  All things that should have been done, obligatory crap and responsibilities, took a backseat.  I could rationalize anything.  You only live once.  I’m having fun now, who cares about anything else.  Things looked so much better and brighter.  I loved everyone more, especially myself, after the first 750ml worked their magic.  It could only go downhill from there.  And it did.

I’m reminded of that predictable line at the end of every Scooby-Doo episode– I would have gotten away with it too if it wasn’t for those meddling kids.  There was always a meddling something, most often a nasty hangover involving an unprescribed and unwanted dose of reality.  I also thought I was excellent at pretending I wasn’t hungover and would act extra chipper on those mornings.  Friends who knew me well, however, knew the signs of how bad my hangover was.  A single Diet-Coke was usually your average, run-of-the mill hangover.  A regular Coke was bad news.  Walking around with a plastic cup with a top on it, in case I had to puke, was, well, pathetic.  It was comical for a while.  Even funnier to make it to later in the day when I could dive headfirst into the hair of the dog.  And the hamster wheel kept turning.

No harm, no foul was the motto I went by.  Until things did become more “meddlesome”.   Appointments that were missed either because they were forgotten, not written down, or written down completely illegibly or incoherently, or because I was simply too hungover to go. Working out wasn’t an option when the idea of any sort of physical exertion was equated to doubling over vomiting.  I had an unusually frequent occurrence of “headaches”, “bad cramps”, “stomach bugs”,”hangnails”…you name it, that prevented me from doing things.

Conversations were forgotten.  Promises made went unkept.  I was reminded often that I had already told someone something or had done something that I had forgotten.  All could be excused somehow.  The straw that broke the camel’s back, however, was when my 10-year old daughter said to me “don’t you remember we talked about that last night?”.   I don’t ever remember feeling more ashamed. That was when I knew things had to change. And they did.

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