Tag Archives: sober

A kick in the face

Today I am reminded that I am an alcoholic, that I am a bulimic, that I am very fucking far from cured of any of the self-destructive behaviors that I am so undeniably addicted to. I can walk around with my rotundly pregnant belly and want a drink just as badly as the drunkard falling over in his seat on the bus. I can feel my baby squirming around inside of me and want to binge on junk food for hours just for the sake of purging, the wonderful empty high of bulimia. I can imagine holding my Son in a few months as vividly and yearningly as I can imagine smoking an entire pack of cigarettes in one afternoon.

Annoyance, simple everyday annoyance brings this shit on. Not life shattering events, not horrific news of some tragedy, not a fight amongst lovers or friends, not even slightly more complicated feelings like anger or stress, just plain old annoyance.

I had an appointment today, I contemplated not going, I always do, and I always go. I seem to have a busy calendar as of late with appointments at the Doctor, the Dentist, the Therapist (sort of, not really an actual therapist.) You see, when you go to the OB/GYN and are honest about your shit they will refer you to a counselor type person to assist you through your pregnancy. The woman I was assigned to happened to be an addiction and eating disorder specialist, so she will obviously know everything there is to know about me. It actually isn’t all that bad. I talk incessantly and answer questions before she can ask them and leave her pretty much speechless except to schedule our next appointment.

The annoyance began on my walk to the train station. The sun was absolutely blinding, the wind blowing my hair into my face, wisps sticking to my lip gloss slathered mouth. My feet already blistered, begin to throb within minutes. I don’t want to be outside today, the traffic too loud, the streets too crowded. Waiting for the train, I shift my increasing weight from foot to foot and try to avoid eye contact with some creepy asshole staring at me. Already I am done with this day. I want to escape, I want to scream, I want to fall down on the ground and throw a tantrum like a child.

Trudging my way up the long ass hill to the Hospital I almost take off my heels because who gives a fuck anymore, barefoot and pregnant, embrace it.

My annoyance turns me into an uppity ass bitch, click clacking in my heels down the hospital halls. What a scene I am, in my dress and coat, my bouffant and my eyebrows. I heave my bright red leather luggage I haul around as my purse, up and onto the reception desk, rummaging for my ID.

“Yes, I am her, can’t you tell? Are there others?”

Losing track of what’s real I want only to sit and write, to ignore the day that surrounds me, engulfs me.

The hour goes by in the usual fashion, my prattling on about healthy meal consumption and yes, of course I intend on attending meetings more regularly.

I leave and face the harsh assault of sunlight, traffic and obnoxious ass people crowding around me on the train.

Why did I leave the house today?

Hauling my ass home, completely aggravated with every living thing from the green grass and bright flowers to the singing birds in the trees. I don’t even wave back to the friendly neighbor who chirps hello from her porch, I just want to go home and crawl into bed. No, what I really want is to go home, open a bottle of wine and light a cigarette. My brain doesn’t give a shit that I am pregnant, it wants what it wants and it is screaming it loud and clear.

Well fuck you brain, fuck you Regina, you selfish goddamn brat. You don’t get what you want anymore.

Home. I write. I eat frozen yogurt. I watch my dogs play. I take a nap. I am ok.

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Filed under Alcoholism and other Assholes, Ana, Mia and other Bitches, Fashionably Unreasonable, Feels like Sunday, I am Pregnant, My Home, Something that happened

Soberly Suffering

I awoke on Friday knowing something was wrong. This wasn’t just allergies, I was sick as shit. My head told a story that didn’t need a fairytale dose of caffeine to create a happy ending. My throat felt hot and sticky and the ache of my ears reverberated through each cavity filled tooth. My Lungs gave a muffled scream of, “Help, we’ve been taken captive. We tried to stop him but he was bigger and stronger”. Hello bronchitis, it’s been a while. At least I can escape for a few days with my books and some Robitussin DM. Wait, No I can’t….. Fuck! I am sober and pregnant, dextromethorphan is a no-no, as is Nyquil and every other happytime 10% alcohol filled medicine. Those would all be much too enjoyable for anyone in my situation. This will be an interesting week or two, my first experience with sober bronchitis.

I have had bouts with bronchitis on a semi-annual basis since I was about 9 years old when my bronchitis became full on pneumonia. I spent over a month in bed high on dextromethorphan and experiencing my first joyous bout with anorexia. My fever got so high I experienced hallucinations and I remember having the distinct thought, “I am dying, and it’s OK.” I was too ill to eat and lost about 20 pounds. I hadn’t thought much about my weight before that point in my life but as soon as I began to lose weight I became obsessed with the feel of my bones appearing through my childish flesh. I became so accustomed to the light-headed feeling when I stood up that I wanted to feel that way all the time. Tylenol with codeine, Nyquil, cough syrup and my new friend starvation made this possible. Laying in bed with a stack of books felt like a perfect way to spend the rest of my life. I didn’t miss school, friends or the outside world. I had all I needed in my room, in my bed, within arms reach. When the bronchial grip began to lessen, the phlegm that had settled comfortably in my lungs really let loose. In an attempt to get me to cough up the offending phlegm my Mother told me,” you know, phlegm is fattening.” I then kept a bowl next to my bed; happily coughing, spitting and counting my calories. Ironically, years later I kept a bowl under my bed into which I retched and vomited after each meal waiting patiently for the house to be empty so that I might empty the foul-smelling bowl of puke into the toilet. Often times the bowl would sit; filled to the rim, rotting under my bed for days before I could empty it. The smell would fill my bedroom with disgust, shame and self-hatred. Now when I think about my days spent in bed sick, my nights spent awake and unsettled with fevered confusion, my days spent starving and uneasy on my feet, wavering in and out of consciousness, they all seem to remind me of one thing: control. My body becoming out of control with sickness and my own attempt at taking control by starving myself, by purging myself, by hurting myself.

I exist in a much different reality now. That is not to say that my mind works much differently than it did before, but I have a better filtration system now. Being pregnant has forced me to care for myself in a way that I never imagined I could. Eating proper meals is a big fucking step for me. And I don’t mean eating one wholesome meal with multiple food groups and obsessing over it for weeks by bringing it up whenever possible, “But I do eat, remember the chicken, rice and vegetables meal, I ate that!” Well, fuck you eating disorder, I am eating a couple healthy meals a day, maybe not three but definitely two. Oh, you want me to jam my fingers down my throat…NO. Just that fucking easy, no. I never thought that no was an option when it came to my eating disorder or even to alcohol for that matter. Pregnancy has given me two wonderfully empowering letters, NO.

So, as I soberly suffer through this bout with bronchitis I am getting plenty of fluids, experimenting in the kitchen with homemade spicy soups and getting a healthy amount of rest. Who knew being sick could feel so good.

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Filed under Alcoholism and other Assholes, Ana, Mia and other Bitches, I remember