Maybe life isn’t going to be easy. Maybe it never was? But I seem to remember a time when things were more peaceful, more in synch with God and the universe, or something.
Or, maybe I’m fooling myself? Like the grandparents that say their generation wasn’t as awful as the next generation…. maybe, like forgetting the pain of childbirth, I forget that things never were ever that easy?
I don’t know. Certainly, my problems are all of my own making — well, actually, except the miscarriage, and actually except the economy wrecking the real estate market. True, the miscarriage wasn’t my fault. The economy going in the tank wasn’t my fault. But everything else was. No, the bankruptcy wasn’t “technically” my fault – that was his fault. But I went along with all of the decisions that led up to it. I enabled it all. It’s not like I haven’t tried. An entrepreneur, I’m naturally an optimist. I keep trying to “figure it out.” I keep trying new things, working hard, coming up with new ideas and plans. I think of my mother’s voice saying, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” Maybe she never even said that, but it seems like something she would say.
I have always had good intentions. I really have intended to get spiritually and physically fit, sober forever, be a good wife and mother, create beautiful successful magazines that the local communities would enjoy. Create a nice home for my family. Lose weight, for goodness sakes — how long am I going to carry around these extra 30 pounds and pretend it doesn’t bother me?
How am I supposed to do all of this without a driver license for ten years? Yes— the DUI last June and a crappy expensive lawyer; and now I’ve lost my license for ten years. I just can’t accept this. And everybody is admonishing me (everybody who cares about me, anyways) for driving on a suspended license. I’m not driving very much. I had to drive the boys to tennis practice and guitar lessons — the lady I traded an ad with to drive me places always gets migraines at the last minute. So, my children have missed their activities. The kids have been through enough — I’m not going to cancel tennis and guitar, too.
And all the relapses. Man how I hate that word, “relapse.” It makes me feel like such a failure. All of the shame that’s piled up in my amygdala in the last five years. I relapsed last April and before that I relapsed in October of 2009. And who knows if I’ll relapse again — I don’t have any faith in my ability to stay sober. And I’m supposed to give it to God and He will keep me sober– if I “do the work.” I guess, to be honest — and aren’t I allowed to be honest here — I guess I don’t trust Him. He’s given me more than I can handle and I always thought He said he wouldn’t do that?
So, when life happens, which is every frickin day, when life happens, then what? Sometimes I just don’t want to be strong. Sometimes I just want to say forget it and throw my cares to the wind, escape from it all just for about five hours. But I can’t.
So, here you go — instead of “relapsing,” I’ll just dump all my authentic garbage on my anonymous blogger friends. I’d rather relapse. But I won’t.
I don’t ever do this. I don’t like to complain. I hate (I hate the word hate but it fits here) to think of myself as a complainer and somebody that pours all my problems out on everybody. And please don’t freak out on me and offer a lot of advice — here is where I make all my excuses for myself — I’m really fine. Really, I am really fine. Please don’t worry or freak out. Just some days — even on absolutely beautiful sunny days like today, I feel hopeless. As always, I logically know God is there. I know everything. And that’s probably my problem.
The image of the Tazmanian Devil is my “logo” (I’m a brand/marketing girl at heart) for my alcoholism. This little devil is the imagery I use in my head for my alcoholic personality. I picture a locked caged with this crazy spaztic Tazmanian Devil banging on the cage, begging me to get out, let him loose, just for a minute… But I have to, have to, have to keep him locked up; because if I let him out, even for “just a minute” (or, just five hours!) then I may never be able to get him back into the cage.