Every day
I thank the girl in me
that believed my life
could still be
something magical
even when the darkness
was enough to chew her up,
and spit her out
even when the ledge
was close enough
for her to end it all
She still chose life.
And I owe it to her
to make something incredible
of myself.
On the days I succeed
I put my hand on my heart
and whisper to her
"This is for you."
Trust seems to be one of the most important things that one can have in their life. Whether it's an intimate relationship, a parent, a colleague, or a close friend, it's imperative that trust be present. Without it, you have zero foundation, and with no foundation, you crumble.
On that same note, say you build your foundation on sand? What about on the side of a mountain? One natural disaster, and then what?
Being as I am a very anxious person, I stop to consider all possibilities. Everything that could go wrong, does, in my mind. It's on a loop most days. It's exhausting being me.
I digress...
Why broach the topic of trust on a blog specifically to journal my journey through sobriety? Well. It's simple. I have to trust myself. I have spent the majority of my life not trusting myself; that inner gut feeling that tells me something just isn't quite right. Usually, by trial and error, I look back and wonder why I did it...again. Why would I not trust my gut? Sometimes it's my pride. I don't want to admit that I was wrong in the end, so I slap a smile on my face and go about my business as usual. Eventually my patience wears thin though, and I find myself on the brink of a complete and utter disastrous meltdown. One can only be pushed so far before they snap.
Now, this has landed me in some hot water over the years, but nothing quite as bad as the last six months have become. More on that later. I consider myself fairly self aware, as does my therapist who've I've been seeing for almost four years now, but there are times that I just want to zone out, be unaware and aloof, ignorant, and blind. It's because of this need to not think so hard and so much that I turned to a drug that is easily available to anyone over 21. The poison to my body, my organs, and my mind were child's play compared to what it did to my demeanor. I went from being someone who, despite being constantly reminded of my impatience (don't ask me to do anything techy), I, at the very least, could muster up every ounce of patience to have an important conversation. If a serious topic needs to be broached, well, I am down for it. The problem with mixing alcohol with grief and trauma though? Well. It's been a shit show of epic proportions, and that's putting it lightly.
As it sits now, I have hurt a lot of people with my dependency on alcohol the past 6 months. I have said and done things I don't remember. I became someone I truly did not recognize. The crutch that my very own brother used, that took him from me, had become the devil in my own life, and I didn't know how to step away from it. It took it's claws and dug so deep into my soul, that looking back at it all, I am left wondering just what in Sam hell was I thinking?
I've been extremely hard on myself since deciding to sober up completely. My therapist told me yesterday to give myself some grace, and I scoffed. Grace? For what, exactly? I've hurt people. I've hurt myself. I've dealt with more suicidal ideation in the last 6 months than I have in my entire life. I've scared my family. I've scared my children, though they haven't known the extent of what their mother has been going through, they aren't stupid. Most of my children are empaths; they feel everything I feel. There's no hiding from them. One day I will have to fess up, and I hope I can do it with courage and grace.
I remember my brother in the throes of his addictions. He was so angry. He would say the cruelest things to me, but I could take it. I knew it wasn't him deep down. I continued to love him, despite the things he said and did, and I would give anything....ANYthing, to have him back here with me, addictions and all.
It's hard to trust that things will get better, simply because I seem to keep messing up over and over and over again in life. I love too hard, I trust people's words, and I just want to be loved back. I want to be able to trust someone with my life, and as it sits right now, my family is all I've got. My current situation is grim, and I'd go more into that, but I'm not sure I'm entirely ready tonight (clock just struck 10 pm). I keep waiting for my body to let me know it's time to get some rest, but, my mind is racing. This time a few weeks ago, I would have been sipping (or shooting) vodka to numb the spiral. Instead, I will sit here with my feelings and really try and process them as best I can.
I've got to trust that I can do this. I must put faith in myself and my ability to keep moving forward. I've got one hell of a support system with my family. I am truly, TRULY, blessed to have what I have in them. We are strong together. We keep fighting and pushing forward together, even after suffering the worst loss and feeling the worst pain from losing one of our own. He's with me too. He's here with me now. He's in the wind, and the sparrows I watch daily, and the songs that randomly pop up on my Apple Music, and in my children's smiles. He's in my tears gently rolling down my cheeks right now. He's in my heart, my soul, and divinely protects me...sometimes even from myself. He's in my willpower to walk each day with my head held high, saying, "another day sober...another day not having to fight the urge." Oh yes. He's here.
He never went away.
Do you ever remember as a child, wondering what you might look like, sound like, or be when you grew up? Maybe it was just me, but I remember vividly staring at myself in the mirror in my bedroom, gazing intensely into my almond shaped eyes curious about who I'd be. I was maybe 7 or 8 years old at the time, and to me, "grown up", meant 16 or 17 (I never said I was smart). Being the oldest, I took on a lot of responsibility at a very young age, including becoming mama hen to my four younger siblings. My mother was overwhelmed, and I stepped up and became her help-meet. My dad worked a lot, and also spent a lot of time in ecclesiastical positions at our church, so often times he was away until well after the sun went down.
I was always responsible in nature. Granted, I pulled some stunts in my younger years, but by the time I was 11 or 12, I was being left home with all four younger siblings, and, keeping everyone in line. The running joke in our home was that I could crack my whip and get things done, mostly because I have a propensity for bossiness.
I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up; a mom.
I accomplished becoming a mother at the young age of 22, and let me tell you, I was unprepared for the barrage of hormones, that induced PPD. Each baby that came along seemingly got worse, until my third was born and I almost lost my life due to pregnancy related complications. I spent a year with severe anxiety and panic attacks that were debilitating beyond belief. I honestly can say I do not remember most of my third child's first year of life because of the constant fight or flight mode I was in.
Three years after he was born, my fourth came along unexpectedly. Once again, I was thrown into an intense spiral of emotions, and even worse panic attacks. I had experienced another life threatening pregnancy complication, but to compound matters, my oldest had been diagnosed with an autoimmune disease that I became the person solely responsible to manage. So, here I was, with baby number four, who by all intents and purposes, was the one child to rock my world and show me just how little I actually knew about being a mother. To this day, nine years later, she still loves to show me how little I know. I accept my fate, unwillingly, but it is what it is. She is my mini me, so I only have myself to blame here.
All of this is to say, life has a funny way of teaching us things we don't necessarily want to learn. Which brings me to my next story:
In September of 2021, we were still in the midst of the Covid backlash. Life had been extremely stressful, as usual, but everything had started to feel so much heavier. So many things had happened in a few short years, and Covid quarantine, homeschooling children, the uncertainty of our future, all played a part in my mental demise.
On the evening of September 15, I heard my phone ring. It was my dad. To this day, the words haunt my dreams, and cause me to wake in a cold sweat, panic taking over my body.
My youngest brother, and one whom I had been closest to my entire life, had made the decision to end his 28 year old life. In one instant, my world shattered. I had just spoken to him on the phone not a week before, where he assured me he was doing wonderfully and was on not one, but two antidepressants. My gut told me something was off, yet, I still hung up the phone and instantly became honed in on all the many things I still had left to get done that day, including unloading an entire car of groceries. I had so much going on in life, and to this day I live with that debilitating guilt.
It was later discovered that my brother, who had struggled with alcoholism since I could remember, had started drinking heavily again. He'd already been to a rehab years prior, and had been doing a lot better in life since that point; graduating with his master's degree in business finance just two months prior, and had a bright future looming ahead for himself and his little family, in a very lucrative career. From the outside looking in, we saw no red flags. Yet, my precious brother was battling demons that he ultimately succumbed to.
I have never been the same since.
Why am I telling you such personal history? Well. That's another story for another day.
