What's in my glass?

I am willing myself to write this morning. 

Truth be told, I have no idea what the hell this writing will turn into, but over the past few days, I’ve let myself down…and so, this is simply an attempt to fulfill this small expectation I have put upon myself.  To write.  To try.  And also…

Not. To. Isolate.

It’s been brewing for a while.  This current state of thinking. Of being.  I can tell by my last few writings, although I don’t know if it’s been apparent to others.  Interesting… Was I trying to tell you what was ahead? 

Because I knew.  I knew where I was headed, but I was trying to think positively.  Trying to hope for the best.  That it would simply pass.

I wasn’t waiting for anyone to fix me.  That’s not my MO.  Over the past few years, if I had bouts like this, I just covered it up as best I could during the day and awaited the evening hours when I could drink my Chardonnay until sleep was inevitable. There weren’t long bouts of crippling depression.  At least not in the last 5 years.  But even in London, I was able to function…of course, I’d eventually fall apart and get drunk.  I’ve never been one to allow myself to stay in bed all day.  But maybe that’s not what depression looks like.  Right?  Maybe it’s just another disorder that we only see extremes of in movies and on TV.  Maybe alcohol wasn’t always my only problem.

Hmmm…would that be good news?  Or bad news?  Would I be able to skirt the whole immoral assumptions that come along with being labeled an alcoholic, if I pawn off my madness on depression?  Or anxiety?  I’m not saying that both aren’t real entities, but would that better?  For me? 

If I answer honestly…well, maybe.

I certainly didn’t feel like this at the beginning of recovery, and it certainly seems like that would have been the time to be down.  There was more uncertainty and difficult decisions that caused worry…a new job, fighting with my ex, healing relationships after being gone for a month…

So why now?

Am I prone to bouts of depression, but have been staving it off or covering it up with alcohol in years past? 

I’m not drinking…but after weeks (in truth, maybe a couple of months) of feeling like this, after recognizing a progression and hopefully, regression…I wonder.

When I felt like this over the last few years, it may have just eventually led to taking a day or two off from teaching, drinking way too much, and eventually getting back to a stasis where daily activities were doable.  Or maybe the kids were about to come for that week, so I forced myself out of it.  Or possibly, I had an immediate goal at work to focus on, so both the intention and the success therein kept these feelings at bay.  I was kept afloat enough to not let it go too far.  To stay buoyant enough to bob and float with my head just above water…sometimes only my mouth visible to take in air.

Because much of the anxiety that I used to face daily, or nightly, rather…simply left the building once I didn’t drink at night.  Oh man, that was nice.  And I’m sure Mike is thankful that he doesn’t get awakened anymore in the middle of the night.  Oh yes, I used to toss and turn, awaken him at 3 am every so often in the middle of an anxiety attack, and he would gently draw circles on my chest to welcome rhythmic breathing.  Jesus, that had to be annoying.  Sorry, Mike.  I’m not proud of that.

So, it’s been a few weeks of “sitting through.”  I’ve wondered more than anything if those around me knew that it was happening. If I’ve covered it up enough.  Sufficiently enough.  If I’ve been clever enough with my banter on the phone.  If I’ve been productive enough during my work hours.  If I’ve been attentive enough to Mike and the kids.  

Because I didn’t want to cause worry.  I’m actually quite the positive thinker, so I had to think that “this, too, shall pass,” right?

And mostly, I didn’t want anyone to assume that I may want to drink.  Truth be told, if anyone would have questioned me in this way, aside from Mike, I would have gone off on them.  Yep. I would have been annoyed, because that’s not the focus.

“Stop wondering what’s in my glass, because it sure as hell isn’t alcohol.”

No, I haven’t been to a meeting, but I’ve been thinking about it.  Not because I struggle not to buy wine. I’ve just been brainstorming ways to propel myself out of this state that I’m in.  This state of numbness.  Of complacency. At times, of feeling “impending doom.”

It’s been weeks now.  And I wasn’t sure if REALLY writing about it would be some sort of enabling. Like self-enabling.  Or if sharing it with others would imply that I’m not trying to help myself. Because that isn’t true.  Albeit, my brainstorming ideas of what might help has gotten more focused and maybe a little more extreme…just as the depressive state got more pronounced. So, finding a healthy balance between not talking about it (so as to not feed it), or talking it about it (so as to move through it) has been terribly confusing.  And even a little tormenting.  What first started out as contemplating a juice cleanse weeks ago, eventually turned into asking myself if I needed to see a psychiatrist.  Ha!  Yeah, I guess it was progressive.  And so frustrating because there were parts of the holiday season when I recognized that I seemed to be happy.  Like elated, happy.

So, to feel this way weeks later?  Well, it’s been a bummer.

It culminated in a couple of days last week, where I cried more than one handful of times throughout the day.  And that was quite a feat, really.  Because I was on the verge of crying the majority of my waking hours.  Not for any major reason.  There was no active threat to my happiness.  Or stability.  Well nothing new anyway.  I mean, I’ve felt uneasiness about the writing, about being social.  That’s nothing new.  And I’ve been bored by some days.  By no immediate goals or feeling success at things that I’m gifted at.  It’s been a little exhausting to try to bring creativity into my present.  I’m an adult, so there aren’t invitations into opportunities like that too often right now.  And I remember that as that adult, I must seek them out.  No one is going to do it for me.  The art teacher isn’t going to hand me Kindergarten scissors and tissue paper. 

Perhaps that’s why I started writing, right?  Because I wasn’t teaching or singing anymore at the moment.  Professionally.  I had cut off those limbs, at least temporarily.  I had lost one of my senses, and the others seemed to compensate for it.  They got more pronounced and even more acute.  As if that kind of creative output got chopped down at the root and sprung new growth all the way across the yard…as an entirely different species.  Hmmm…what’s that all about?

But it’s been hard and strange to let writing be the main outlet.  Hard to have confidence in a creation that I’m not getting paid for, haven’t been asked to do, but also isn’t entirely for myself.  If I was simply journaling, it would be mine.  Mine, all mine.  But I don’t put these thoughts away under my mattress at night.  I don’t have them under lock and key.

I send them out into the world.  Yes, it starts out as my “own little world,” as I write upon this couch in this remainder of darkness.  But as soon as the sun rises, I decide if I share it.  If perhaps, someone wants to come to my gallery of art.  Stare at the paintings on the wall.  Question it’s content and meaning.

So, it was also intensely frustrating that I couldn’t write a damn thing when the funk was at its peak.  I couldn’t.  My brain was functioning differently then, and I found that metaphors were forced.  Words were slow.  Attention was sporadic.

I decided to focus on what might bring about new thinking.  I’ve contemplated doing something new, doing something unexpected, doing something challenging, doing…something. 

Working out.  Doing a juice cleanse.  Going to a meeting.  Setting up dinner dates with friends who I haven’t seen in months.  Calling my primary care physician.  Seeing a counselor or psychiatrist.  Quitting the writing thing.  Actually PURSUE writing as a profession. Get a master’s degree in counseling.  All of it.

Remember, I said I’ve contemplated these things.  That doesn’t mean that I’ve actually done all of them.  But yes, at least I’ve done SOME.

I DO love therapy, although I can’t say that I’ve ever had a long-term commitment to it.  My first try was back in London.  It was helpful, but I never found someone new once I moved back home.  Then, again during separation.  Again, it was helpful, but I eventually passively let it fall to the wayside.  If I kept talking, I doubted that I could drink again without terrible guilt, so….yeah, I stopped scheduling appointments.  That seemed logical. 

My most successful experience was in rehab.  I know that I felt like my counselor there understood me and listened like no one ever had.  That we had a relationship and I wasn’t simply a subject. As an adult, I realize that all counselors are NOT the same.  Their degree does not necessarily indicate their level of skill and knowledge.  And truth be told, I have pretty high standards.  I’d feel the same way about having a classroom teacher at this point in my life.  Don’t give me someone who just earned the degree.  Give me someone gifted and inspired by their daily work.  So, this endeavor may take a while.  I think I may have been a little lucky to have had those four weeks with her.  Because I most certainly would have proactively sought more time with her, if she wasn’t four hours away.

You hear people in the rooms talk about their “alcoholic brain,” as if it’s the devil upon their shoulder whispering sweet nothings into their frontal cortex.  That it can lead them to be “restless, irritable and discontent.”  But isn’t that all of us sometimes?  It’s not the alcoholic brain.  It’s just our brain. 

I remember feeling like this my freshman year of college.  Probably the reason that I left TCU for a semester and went back home to take community college classes, before transferring to Baylor.  I remember having days and days, willing myself out of bed to make it to class.  Lying in that bottom bunk, hoping the cave I created would keep me safe.  And that the soundtracks that I repeatedly played on my boombox wouldn’t ever end… “Just keep shuffling.  They won’t end.”  Because if they never ceased, I wouldn’t have to pull back the covers. 

We each have our own little special brand of crazy, but we can all relate.  And I have to say that I find some alcoholic anecdotes and sometimes, beliefs, more than annoying.  After a year of sobriety, I don’t want to be told, “Just don’t drink today.”  Because, I CLEARLY UNDERSTAND THIS EXPECTATION.  I get it.  But I’ll be honest as well. I have MUCH higher expectations for myself than just “not drinking” today.  And so does everyone around me. 

It’s not as if I filled every waking hour drinking in the past.  I worked.  I taught classes.  I cooked dinner.  I was social.  Social enough, anyway.  I did ALL of these things sober.  But I realize that I don’t do ALL of these things anymore.  Not on a daily basis.  And I wonder what about some of those things fed me enough to not feel like this.  What do I need to “drink in” that keeps me out of phases like this? 

Perhaps bouts like this is a part of being ME in my natural state.  A part of being ME when I don’t get to alter myself for over a year. 

Well, damn. 

I’m not triggered into wanting to go buy wine.  I have yet to ever come close to that kind of craving, where any action was actually contemplated.  I’m triggered into boredom.  Of complacency.  Of willingly driving to that storefront of discontentment, and blankly staring at the shelf for my big bottle of “More.”  Or worse yet, going through the drive-through for the “More,” because I’m too much of a lazy ass to get out of my car.  Or maybe I’m embarrassed of my dress for the occasion.  The store clerk may know my mental state by the PJ bottoms that accompany my pullover, right?

I used to consider the label on a wine bottle of utmost importance.  It communicated what I was looking for each and every time.  Maybe even who I wanted to be.  Sometimes it was more important than the taste.  I preferred creative labels.  Ones with a bold background color, interesting font, and hell yes, a fucking great name. 

And if I ever went with the cheap and boring options (which eventually occurred), I was telling myself that I was all of those things as well.  Nothing extraordinary. Terribly boring labels.  Not deserving of awards.  But hey…surely, the label and cost were NOT indicative of the taste of what was inside.  That’s what I hoped anyway.  Sincerely.  I hoped that it didn’t mean too much.  I hoped that the person behind the counter wasn’t thinking what I was thinking.  That I didn’t care what the label looked like.  I just wanted the contents to change me.  To change me inside.

Because no one talks about the “subtle notes” of jack shit with the cheap wines.  Because that’s not the point, is it?  When I lost interest in wine labels, I was also losing a grasp on my insides.  On my standards for what was acceptable.  Enjoyable.  What may or may not have “been working” for years.  Enough. For years.

It’s funny, because a few months ago, I wrote about just boiling life down to basic expectations.  That was life-altering for a while.  But we always want more at some point, right?  We want and even NEED to be moving towards more.  But more of what?  How do we define the “more”?  How do we define success?  Or appropriate fulfillment?  Because I evidently need both.  This isn’t quite working anymore.

I know that I’m safe within these walls.  My home.  That I’m surrounded by loving and supportive people.  That I can share with Mike.  And I did.  It helped to some degree, but not to the point of changing my thinking.  And that’s what this is, right?  Skewed thinking?   

The kids came back to our house last week.  Six days ago.  On my tearful day.  And I can’t tell you the resolve that it took to not cry in front of them.  To NOT share where I was in those moments.  Ohhhhh, the willing myself to get up and make dinner.  Or listen to after school stories.  Or put clothes in the washer.  I just told myself that it was probably best that taking care of others take my focus.  That maybe it would help.

I don’t really know if it did.  That’s when Will got sick and has been home with the flu for the last 5 days.  Which means that I’ve been home with the flu as well.  In and out of low fever, but honestly, I wondered if it was all psychological in my case.  I started feeling badly a day after his diagnosis, but my fever never went up quite like his.  Maybe I just let my body and mind take me there.  Allowed a virus in that didn’t need a diagnosis, because I created its symptoms. 

Ever done that?  Wondered if your “crazy” created your pain?

But I did start to feel better yesterday.  My gauge was simply watching Netflix for ONE MORE DAY and realizing that my brain allowed the plot to take over present thought. 

“Nice,” I thought.  “I’ll take it.”

And another positive change has been gradual, since the tearful day…hopefully, the crest of the bout.

Wanting to write.  Even feeling like my brain was functioning creatively enough to put some thoughts down.  The goal today was to just try, and so far, it feels pretty good, frankly.  Maybe not the best writing, but something, right?  Sometimes you must leave your standards and expectations outside for a while.  Just make the physical commitment to do something, knowing that it will likely engage the mental.  And Emotional.  Um…let’s just leave the spiritual alone for a little longer.  I ain’t quite ready for that.

Thanks for reading these thoughts today.  I don’t have a clever ending. 

My happy place is attempting to find a flow state during the writing process, and it’s usually indicative of the flow that I experience entering my day.  Or contentment, to be very specific.  I can’t say that this writing today has necessarily “flowed” out of me.  But I can say that I notice a trickle.  And for that, I am grateful. 

I’ll leave you for today, and please know that I’m searching for the “more.” I am ever mindful that I’m looking for a bold label for what I drink in today. 

It’s an alcohol-free spritzer, but it has subtle hints of contentment.  And I know that what I’m doing is nurturing the insides.  And it tastes good.