Tag Archives: sobriety

Dressing room melt down

Dressing rooms have always been a place of misery and torment for me and often the beginning of yet another period of tortuous self-destruction. I don’t know how many times I have left a dressing room with mascara smeared across my reddened face and headed home in a silent rage, shaking and choking back sobs. A bottle of vodka helped wash away the shame, followed either by days of starvation or endless binge and purge sessions. Starvation felt too rewarding, light-headed and calm, my mind able to focus too clearly on the problems at hand; my fat ass, my huge thighs, my cheesy blue skin that glared at me almost fluorescently under the dressing room lighting. Bulimia felt more appropriately like punishment, my stomach uncomfortably distended with undesirable food cooked hastily, consumed furiously without tasting, no enjoyment what so ever. Because that isn’t the point and I certainly do not deserve to enjoy anything. Violently purging again and again, swallowing water from the bathroom sink only to purge again, making sure everything came out clear or at least red tinged, a little blood just means you are doing it right. As I sat huddled in the bathroom, heart skipping beats, lungs and esophagus burning with bile dripping from my nose, I stared at my bloodied knuckles and I knew that I deserved this.

For years, I have made a point of avoiding dressing rooms which was usually easy seeing as how I mostly shop at thrift stores that do not have dressing rooms. “Eyeballing” measurements have led to a closet full of clothes that don’t fit quite as expected and many trips to resale shops, trash bag over the shoulder disappointment and a five dollar store credit slip.

This thrift store vintage polyester clad closet of mine hasn’t been too generous with maternity wear but I thought I was making the best of the temporary situation with what I had. Well, boy was I fucking wrong. I was made very aware that I had worn out my welcome with two dresses that still fit quite well, especially paired with my fave Sam Kinison coat. Apparently I had crossed into crazy territory simply by wearing the same outfit one too many times and by donning a wool coat on an 80 degree day. Comments like, “You know you actually don’t look pregnant in that outfit, you kind of just looked like you put on weight” and “That coat on a thin girl says, ‘Downtown chic’ but on a fat girl it says, ‘I have 13 cats”, finally convinced me to go shopping for actual maternity clothes, the kind with stretchy stomach panels that go up to your tits and a little extra room in the hips.

I hesitantly walked into the maternity store at the mall and was greeted by a chirpy young girl and I immediately wanted to turn away and run but considering the fact that my red leather pumps had created a substantial blister on my heel I was actually yearning for the relief of a sitting down in a quiet dressing room. I quickly grabbed up a few options; a black skirt, black capri pants, bootcut stretchy jeans and a pair of skinny (fucking hilarious) jeans, all with said tit approaching stretchy panel. I wobbled back to the row of torture chambers, closing the door behind me with a sigh or maybe it was a grunt. I sat down, drank a bottle of water and attempted to prepare myself for this momentous event. Stalling, I applied lip gloss and checked my text messages. Before I had even begun the task at hand the chirpy young girl was asking me how I was doing. I replied cordially and sat a little longer, contemplating the “eyeball” method and just buying the clothes and going home. “Eyeballing” may have worked half of the time in the past but seeing as how I haven’t really given too much actual mirror time to this new body of mine I knew I had to do it. I had to strip naked in this tiny room under this awful disfiguring lighting that I swear only exists in dressing rooms. I remove my well-worn polyester dress with ease and as I bend over to remove my heels I am confronted with reality. I am plastered across the mirror covered wall like a billboard advertisement for albino dairy cows in drag (yet another wonderful premise for a children’s book).

Motherfucker, shit, oh my fucking god, this has to be a fucking joke, you fat fucking bitch whore. Okay, calm down you red-faced sweaty bitch. Don’t you start crying, not this time. You are a grown ass woman and you are fucking pregnant which is why you are in a fucking maternity store and buying fucking maternity clothes.

Calm down, breathe. Okay, skirt, not too terribly bad. Next, black capris, hmmm….the stretchy tummy to tit panel is kind of comfortable. Boot cut jeans, terrible. Skinny Jeans, don’t even make it off the hanger. Done. Quickly slip into my cool polyester dress noticing the holes under the arms and barely there stitches in the hems threatening complete detachment at any moment. I pull on my Kinison coat, careful not to further rip the lining as I slide my arms into the sleeves. I take my raggedy ass self up to the register and pay for my new clothes as the chirpy girl fills my bag with diaper coupons and nipple cream samples. I leave the store with a renewed sense of “I am pregnant motherfuckers” empowerment and “I am a fat fucking cow” self-hatred. That old bitch self-hatred is never too far away, she hides out for a bit, biding her time, especially in dressing rooms. She is like a yeasty mold and the dressing room is a moist fold of skin in the middle of summer. The stench is pretty much the same and the lingering itch an embarrassing reminder of your awful fucking human self.

Finally at home I take a hot bath to wash away the grime of public transportation and street traffic but more importantly to soak my bloody blistered feet. I’m still not giving up on my heels no matter how painful it may be. I reflect on my day, my mirrored image, my pasty white ass and thick thighs.

I want to drink, I want to be empty, I want to hurt and get lost in the numbness that proceeds the purge.

These thoughts come as instantly and easily as ever before, flashing red lights and sirens of demands. In the past I conceded quickly and without much of a struggle, giving in with arms outstretched in search of comfort and relief. Now, I have a choice, a choice I never knew was there. I can just sit with these feelings, let them linger and hang in the air around me. A staring contest of sorts, who will look away first? They lose and I am left staring at the mound in front of me, my stomach poking out from the peaks of bubbles and the rising of steam.

I haven’t thought much about the kid at all today, you know me being the selfish ass bitch that I am. I was too busy staring into a fucking mirror hating myself to realize that I was also staring at the body that is busy creating the brain of my child. How can I hate that? How can I feel these self-destructive urges while my kid is in there, sucking on his fingers and opening and closing his tiny little eyelids? I feel a rather adamant kick to the ribs and place my hands on my stomach in an effort to soothe him. In a hot bath, hands on my rounded abdomen holding my son safe I am at peace.

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Selfish

My greatest desires are for solitude and anonymity. Neither of which are possible especially now that I am bringing a new life into this overwhelmingly intrusive world.

I am a selfish ass bitch, always have been, mostly with my self. I am an only child which automatically gives a person the right to be selfish but I have taken selfishness to an entirely new level. I am not talking about the kind of “no, you can’t have a cookie, they are mine” kind of selfishness but the much more destructive kind that causes a person to withdraw from reality without any consideration for those who still reside in a world where people say “hello”.

I am secretive and sneaky as shit when I need to be. I became an amazing liar, mostly to myself. I faked a life and almost succeeded at death before I realized I was so full of shit that I could barely breathe. Terrible way to die, suffocating on your own stinking shit.

Opening myself up, airing out my rotting cavities, hanging my bloody panties out on the fence, staring into my own asshole just to see what’s in there. Offending my senses, arousing my curiosities, I peered further and found that I am not just a selfish alcoholic on the verge of collapse, that I am flesh and blood, that I am real.

Now that I am pregnant and feeling more “real” than I ever could have imagined, I would hope that I would lose some of my selfish ways and see shit from some entirely new plane of Motherhood consciousness that I should somehow have gained access to. No such luck. I am feeling even more selfish, more reserved and less communicative than ever. But I am remaining positive that the destructive nature of these emotions are being put to good use and with all hopes of a positive outcome for the kid. I am positive because now the basis of my selfishness is founded solely on love. Love and a huge amount of “get the fuck away from my kid or I will kill you” sort of emotions.

Fuck, all I do is contradict myself. In one afternoon I address and mail about 100 invitations to a baby shower that I am halfheartedly committed to and then suddenly and belligerently swear off all human contact simply because I couldn’t fit into my fluorescent Hawaiian gown.

As I resign myself to black stretchy yoga pants I realize what I am really feeling (besides the kids knees pounding into my ribs). I am afraid. Afraid of the moment when the kid is no longer just “mine”. He is going to come out and be a part of the world. He will be held by other people, cuddled by family and friends, stared and cooed at by strangers and licked by my dogs. His toes which once tickled my insides will soon be kissed by lips that are not mine. My selfish ass bitch self is fucking angry about this. I want to scream out, “He is mine motherfuckers, back the fuck off!”

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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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Sensory awakenings

Bullshit. I see it on everyone’s face, I hear it in everyone’s voice and I smell it, the rotting stench of deception and ulterior motives. I attribute my new-found sensory abilities to my sobriety.

When I was drinking, I could deal with absolutely anything with this one simple theory “where can I get a drink?” It made everything so simple, my goals were simple. And once my goal achieved, the problem itself was a distant obstacle, not worth dealing with. Situations were glazed over in an effort to simply “get by”. And I did, I got by for years. I didn’t accomplish much, but I survived and I fooled everyone (almost) into thinking I was fine.

Sobriety has given me  a new outlook on my surroundings and of course myself. I had no idea that I was even capable of feeling the emotions that now come up on an almost daily basis. I am hostile, I am appalled, I am fucking annoyed. An onslaught of sorts is occurring and I feel almost….violated, especially by those around me that I never paid much attention to in the past. I discovered that I don’t care much for most of the personal relationships that I once needed. And I have found that because most people never knew the actual me, the me beyond the girl having a good time with a drink in her hand, that I must either put in the time to introduce myself or forget about the relationship entirely.

I find myself constantly questioning people’s sincerity, and my own as well. I may have stopped consciously lying but I still find myself holding back my feelings and honest opinions when speaking to people. I don’t have to “get by” anymore, I don’t have to keep a calm exterior to avoid fucking up the balance between the reality I have created and the reality everyone else lives in.

The path is now clear, the wine bottles hauled away with the garbage. I can see all the bullshit, it’s as close as the end of my driveway. But I’m not letting it in the front door quite yet. I still need a little more time to think this through, plan a strategy that requires more tools than a cork screw.

 

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I never want to feel that way again

“When was your last drink?”

“October 13, 2011, about 3pm”

“What was it?”

“Champagne, I was at work and I drank that shit all day”

I was a fucking mess. But goddamnit if the ED part of me doesn’t love how thin I was at the time. I had quit eating regular meals and had dropped to well below my average adult weight. I was also shitting blood every day and was covered in bruises. But I was thin, my stomach flat and my clavicle nicely exaggerated.

I realized today that both my first and last drinks were champagne (excluding the wine I got drunk on at two years old). I don’t even particularly like champagne, I was always privy to vodka, from Stoli to Popov, I wasn’t picky. I never once bought a bottle of champagne. It was a work thing, an availability issue, it was free and there for the drinking.

My last drunk week was a chaotic disaster of lies. I had promised to quit drinking a week earlier. A promise I knew I would not keep, one of thousands I had made to others and to myself. Fuck promises, they mean nothing. I was sneaking and lying, two things I am ridiculously talented at. But this time was different, I felt bad about it. I felt…..guilty, at the time an extremely rare emotion for me.

It was near the end of my shift and I was sipping on my travel coffee mug (filled with champagne) while I was scrubbing a mountain of dishes. The heaping mound of trash behind me filled the small back room of the kitchen with the foul odors of a busy morning. I was covered in grease, coffee grounds and questionable slime. My back ached and sweat dripped between my breasts, it was a normal afternoon. I patted my apron pocket to make sure I had my smokes handy, a compulsive movement I did numerous times a day out of comfort and security.

Suddenly, I was completely disgusted, with myself, my situation, with every fucking aspect of my life. I threw up into the sink, hot liquid spraying out of my mouth and nose, choking spasms of revulsion let loose all over plates of egg matter and bowls crusted with tomato soup. I screamed and spit violently, wanting to be rid of everything inside me, my burning esophagus, my rotting stomach, my fucked up brain, my worthless soul.

And that was it, I was done. I didn’t feel like a liar, I didn’t question why I felt the way that I did. I felt primal, my survival instinct kicked me in the head and I woke the fuck up.

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Narcotics and bloody gauze

There is a bottle of pain pills in my purse, nestled in with my lipstick and a wad of bloody gauze. This is a precarious position for an addict to be in. I haven’t taken a pain pill in almost a year and I haven’t had a drink in 146 days.

I just got home from the Dentist’s office and there is a gaping bloody hole in my mouth where an infected tooth once resided. Having a tooth extracted is one of the creepiest feelings I have ever experienced. The novocaine wore off more than half an hour ago, my entire face is throbbing. It feels as if the tooth was partially embedded in my right eye. My sinus cavities still tender from sickness now tingle from the annoying disruption to their dark cavernous environment.

I realize now that I have absolutely no tolerance for pain. I have never just sat with any kind of pain, I always used the slightest bit of discomfort as an excuse to take a few extra vicodin. I don’t know how to deal with this experience, mentally or emotionally.

If I just take one and go to sleep I won’t even feel the effects of the narcotic so it won’t really count, right?
I know the medication is safe in moderation during pregnancy especially in these circumstances.
The pain that I am experiencing might be traumatic for the baby.
Rationalize, make excuses, obsess a little more.
Just take the fucking pill.
 

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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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Meeting “Bored”

I have never met “Lonely” but I recently met “Bored”.

I am an only child and have never had much desire for companionship as a youth nor do I (as an adult) seek out friendship or even acquaintanceship. I have always been quite self sustaining emotionally, self satisfied mentally and have always upheld a hands off policy, physically.

I don’t remember being bored as a child, my imagination was a fully stocked playground in which I created worlds of boundless entertainment. As a youth I discovered beer, cigarettes and sneaking out at all hours of the night, nothing boring about that. Around 20 I was working full time, drinking part time and taking care of a 4 bedroom house with a revolving door welcoming all sorts of unreliable roommates. By 25 I was drinking full time, working full time and the struggle of paying rent, bills etc. had long ago lost any sort of charm and the silver lining of adulthood had already begun to tarnish. By 30 I had all but given up, on feeling anything but desperate. I was working 50 plus hours a week at a job I hated and I subsided on a diet of cigarettes, coffee, wine, vodka, cookie dough and the occasional meal to appear “normal”. But I certainly wasn’t bored.

Now at 31; I am sober, pregnant and unemployed. And I finally met him, that elusive little fucker that’s been hiding from me all my life. Hiding behind the couch (I couldn’t see him because I spilled my wine there too many times). Hiding on the bus bench (I missed him all together being much too consumed with the lighting of my cigarette on a windy day). Hiding under the table at work (I never cleaned there anyways). Hiding under the covers on my bed (I guess I wasn’t paying attention because lets face it, sex is way more fun when you are high). Hiding in my kitchen cupboard (definitely not where I hid my booze).

Now I find myself hanging out with “Bored” quite often. We meet while I stare at the television wondering how I ever watched this crap for hours every night. We meet while I clean the kitchen floor and scrub the toilet. Fuck, we even meet for coffee. I have found that if prompted enough, conversation can ensue. It’s the mundane sort of, “How about this weather”, kind of shit that I usually avoid from strangers with a cold hard gaze. But I guess “Bored” is no longer a stranger so I might as well get used to him.

“Bored”, I can handle. I just hope I never meet “Lonely”.

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Slinging coffee and swigging booze

I have taken some time off from my job as a Barista. At this point I have no intentions of returning to this type of work. I was a Barista for over 13 years. I spent over a decade of my life making lattes and mopping floors; asking “room for cream?” and chirping “have a nice day.” I cared about my profession and I was a good Barista; I made perfect foam and pulled beautifully creme topped shots. I honestly liked most of my customers and made many life long friends. I always loved waking up at 3:30am and taking the first train downtown. Early commuters are a curious crew; the chatters, the sleepers, the zombies and the roll takers. I appreciated how we looked out for each other, strangers on a train united by our predawn migration.

My years as a Barista were not all pleasant, not even close. Most shops I worked at were poorly managed and I was never appreciated. I worked hard because that is the only way I know how to work. I worked myself to exhaustion; mentally, physically and emotionally. Meanwhile I entertained the shit out of customers and coworkers with my ridiculous behavior and strange sense of humor. I was literally laughing to hide my tears most days. When shit got real bad I just got funnier.

I realized a few months ago that I needed to make some real changes or……..I don’t know. I just knew it was time, I knew it the way you know you have a split second to move your ass when you see a truck about to hit you. (Fuck, did I just use that analogy? At some point I will share why that just made me almost throw up).        So, I lost my job (stuck in a set cushion? vacuum bag? bottom of my purse? who gives a fuck!) Then I got sober. I spent a few weeks discovering what my home looked like during the day and examining the bedroom wall for hours every night avoiding the sweaty sleep. Being home was such a strange experience after having spent the past year working over 50 hours a week. My dogs stared at me as I wandered around my yard shouting, “Wow! I haven’t stood here in a year! I haven’t walked down this step in a year!”

Sobriety is fucking weird. There were so many things that I hadn’t done sober in years; sleeping, watching movies, grocery shopping, cleaning house, having sex and taking a bath. Oh, bubble baths with a glass (bottle) of Cabernet, a pack of Winston cigarettes and John Frusciante to bring on the tears. I was finally free to drop the smile. I still have my baths and Frusciante but the tears got lost somewhere in between, somewhere I haven’t looked yet, somewhere I might not be ready to look. I’m getting used to daily sober life. People aren’t quite as loud and teeth gratingly annoying as they were a few months ago and my nights are a little easier to sleep through. My dreams are still as fucked up as always only now I am also plagued by the moment of guilty awakening with the hangover of the drunken dream.

My life of slinging coffee and swigging booze is done. A decade gone and far from forgotten. A period of my life is over and I have said good-bye and farewell.

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Bathtub dreams and city stares

I feel safe in the bathtub.Which has always seemed odd to me seeing how I hate my body and all.I have lived with eating disorders for over 20 years now. I have gone days without eating and I have consumed (briefly) thousands of calories in one sitting. I have written down every meal I have ever eaten. I write in notebooks, books I happen to be reading at the time, scraps of paper and most recently into handy little phone apps that encourage my obsessive behavior.I’m not ok with my growing pregnant body. I can’t stand the fucking “your body is beautiful” “pregnancy glow” comments. This bloated uncomfortable stomach is not beautiful. Fuck all that shit. I am pregnant, I am fat, I will give birth and then I will starve myself until I see myself as being somewhat acceptable. And I will probably be pregnant again. I want kids, i really do. I hope I don’t pass on this shit to them but who am I kidding, I probably will. But that’s why we have kids, to share our crazy shit with.I like to figure shit out in the bathtub. And did I mention I feel safe in there? When I first got sober I would spend hours in the tub chain smoking cigarettes. I knew that it would be more difficult for me to change my mind about sobriety if I had to get out of the tub, dry off, get dressed (always a daunting task), put on my make up (at least 45 minutes), poof my bouffant, OCD for about 20 minutes, then walk to the liquor store for a bottle of wine. And it worked. I have been sober for over 3 months. 

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