No. Not that morning after kind of walk.
Just like yesterday.
And the day before. And every day before that. For the last 10 years.
I am so not going to fucking miss that walk, or asking Hubs to go do it for me. But, I know I’m still going to want to make it every day. Maybe we’ll need to move. Maybe we live too close – literally under a minute door to door. Probably one of the deciding factors on why we moved here.
I sat today trying to remember the last sober day I had. And, I can’t. There isn’t one day in recent memory (which is spotty at best, anyhow) where I didn’t have a drink.
Actually, a drink isn’t a fair unit of measure for me.
Allow me to rephrase.
I can’t remember a day in the last several years where I haven’t polished off bottles, upon bottles, of wine.
How am I even still here? The human body is a ridiculously patient thing.
Until, of course, it isn’t.
I’ve been lucky so far. Getting ready to head to recovery in 5 sleeps (OMG) everything is just starting to sink in. Everything I’m doing seems amplified. Every walk. Every purchase. The clink of every empty bottle as it hits the one next to it.
Lined up like green glass dominoes, ready to make me fall.
There’s no anonymity in this town, either. We live in a tiny village outside of a relatively big city. Our liquor store is literally also the variety store (it’s Canada, and Ontario, so alcohol sales are ridiculously regulated). So, it’s the same humble people cashing me out every day while I refuse to make eye contact because I know they’re aware I’ve been there, the same time, every day, since we moved here nearly three years ago. Every day, buying 2 big bottles of wine, and a pack or two of cigarettes.
The initial “we’re having a party” and “company’s company” lies eventually had to stop. Honestly? Did I ever think they believed me, anyhow? I just said it to make myself feel better. They could honestly care less. Cha-ching.
I’m back from the walk. Again. And a bottle is already gone.
I just came in from the kitchen – yes, to fill up my glass – and saw that Hubs just put this on the chalkboard. *Sigh.
I’m working myself up with distractions about going to recovery. What if I don’t have access to coffee. Today I discovered I could only bring 200 cigarettes in, and from my math, I’ll need 700, if I don’t quit or cut back while there. 700. How disgusting. At a pack a day, it adds up quickly. I already know they won’t get them for me, and I won’t have access to them. I’m worried about withdrawal from technology (I could care less about social media – but I’m concerned about not being able to work while away. Though I know I need to focus on myself and healing – I also need to pay the bills).
I’m just starting to get worried.
*Pours another drink.
I’m going to keep doing that walk when I get back. But in the other direction. When I feel the habit creep back onto to me, I’ll just go and discover a new part of the village. Or wander through the paths I have yet to discover in the woods near our house.
I’ll just keep walking until it goes away.
Is this normal? I don’t feel like this is normal. But, nothing about my emotions is normal. I was so calm this morning, happy with having a nice evening for a change (read: without bawling my eyes out).
I can’t help but connect the dots that I only started feeling like this after my daily walk of shame.
After I had my first drink.
And worse, after my second, and third.
Pouring the anxiety down my throat, hoping to drown the anxiety.
Figure that out.