I felt it wash over me, a sense of peace. Contentment. Reminiscent of a time long ago as a child on a mediterranean holiday, lying in the shores on warm, wet sand, as the waves gently passed over my small, brown body.
The coils have been so tightly sprung for so long that I couldn’t quite work out what was wrong. The house was still in need of a good sort out, no miraculous dumping of millions had occurred in my bank account and I hadn’t lost 2 stone. So why on earth did I feel.. ok?
Surrendering isn’t something I do very easily, well not without mind altering substances and as they are officially off the menu, I am having to find alternative measures; meditation and yoga are my mind altering practices.
Meditation has been delicious.. there is something about the letting go; the shoulders gently relax; the tension melts and you surrender.
I suddenly ‘get’ recovery and the serenity it can bring; letting go and accepting; the tribe I have become part of and within which support freely flows.
The anxiety is lifting and my eyes are starting to smile once more.
Today has been a wake up call. Not a huge massive resounding gong or anything.. more of a creeper.. but with a lot of thorns. Last night I relapsed which gave the Shitty Guilt Fairy massive pleasure and she did a complete rendition of the Riverdance on my head this morning.. it went on for hours. I learned some home truths from various corners of East and West Sussex and am still slowly waking up to the realisation that I am not who I thought I was and it’s time to toughen up.
It is a new day (like literally only 4 seconds old) and it’s time to re-saddle the horse and haul my hefty arse back on. Additionally, I have realised that my wagon isn’t faulty it’s just I keep vaulting over the side in a desperate bid for self destruction. Normally I’d be happy with any form of sporting prowess but it appears that Wagon Falling isn’t a bonafide sport and therefore the idea is to remain on board.
Finally, my higher self and I are about to have a bit of a conversation about loving oneself, not allowing oneself to be treated like a twat and how life sober really is a better option.
I’ll let you know how it goes.
So by far the nicest thing that has happened to me today occurred an hour or so ago. I, (very excitedly) decided that I was going to, not only have a bath but I was going to have a bath bomb in it and some 0% pink fizz to drink (Friexenet 0.0% – really lovely), with M&Ms in the light of a candle and then… wait for it…. I watched Bird Box in the bath!
Now for some, maybe this isn’t quite the rollercoaster ride you expect to either experience or hear from me… but if I am brutally honest.. it was so fucking nice that I can’t wait to do it again. In fact, if I wasn’t so bloody clean, I would go and do it again. I even used a Xmas gift of a body scrub from the EO. There was a bit of writhing in the water as I realised that it’s difficult to hide during scary bits when you are in the bath.. well at least not without deluging the whole sodding bathroom.. I forget that as a (slightly overweight) adult.. one quick move in the bath is like creating one’s own miniature fecking tsunami but aside from that.. not one M&M was dropped and the laptop didn’t explode from steam exposure.
I bounded out like an eager and overexcited puppy… declaring to the EO that I had such ‘ A LOVELY bath’ and then told her how many of her Xmas gifts I had used, so that she thought I was extra-amazing. She lounged on her bed, her phone practically stuck to her cheek in case it dared to leave her sight and I decided due to one’s amazingness that she ought to give me a back scratch so that she could earn having my presence in her room. Bramble (small witch kitten) lying on the wicker chair in the corner, opened an eye and looked at me with a really horrid expression. Like pure evil, she glared (with the one eye) as if to say ‘pathetic human, I don’t have to do any amateur dramatics to get massages and back scratches.. I simply exist’. I foresee another accidental kick off the bed tonight.
Other than that, today has been a good day. I paid an exorbitant amount to have the car cleaned badly, spent more than I would on alcohol on alcohol-free-pretend-alcohol so that I could pretend I was still drinking alcohol; did some boring HouseShit and caught up with one of my besties. I even printed ‘things’ for my leadership exam.. and put them in piles and then moved them about.. and did an impression of studying.
Who knows what excitement tomorrow could bring? (Well, I do actually, a 5 year old’s birthday party.. There is NO stopping me!)
2018 was undoubtedly one of the toughest years I have experienced as Adult Chloe. But aside from learning in depth about loss and fear, there is something that has come from it and which prepares me for 2019. A definite sense of self is forecast. As I itch and scratch and wish I could have a glass of wine, I remember the feelings last January as I became more adept at forgoing alcohol and as a result found my sober skip. This next year will hopefully see me qualify as a nurse and subsequently start a new career. The LO and MO will change schools and there will be a lot of transition to manage. Somewhere in the midst of this, I know that I need to nourish the broken Chloe, feed her some nutrients and watch as new shoots grow. In the last couple of months, there was a darkness that grew from the depths, like wispy smoky tendrils snaking around my ankles, steadily climbing and wrapping round my body, tight like an angry cloak. Impulsivity, anger, resentment, bitterness and an inability to ground left me drunken and craving for debauchery. Hedonism. And it’s strange, as the higher self looks on, almost in amusement, as she watches the unfurling of chaos. I picture her, leaning back against a wall, right leg bent and anchored, with her arms crossed. A wry smile worn on her face as she chews on a piece of wild grass held in her hand. Watching, waiting. She knew what would happen. We both did. It was the only way I would reset. Even the toxicity of the past few weeks has been a learning curve. I never knew I was susceptible to abuse. How the powers that be must have guffawed at that one. I am doing domestic violence for my dissertation and I stated to a few people in the last few months that I have never suffered from this type of abuse. And still I haven’t regarding the physical aspect of it but little did I know that via some random law of attraction, I literally opened the door to another form; emotional and mental abuse. I am lucky that I recognised this for what it was but there are some less fortunate. I am also fortunate that I have a good support system around me who also warned me early on that this behaviour was unwarranted and therefore manipulative. But it is strange how a sense of love can alter one’s perceptions. The pushing and pulling, like a dance, building up into a crescendo and as the wave crashes down, you realise that your body and mind are no longer joined, you have lost your sense. Lost your self.
Today, I felt a new strength. No longer did I want to play that game. Each time I felt a pang, I reminded myself of what I would say to a loved one, a friend. I am not perfect. I know this but equally I am not to be put down; lied to; manipulated or treated with contempt. A month was long enough. Long enough to remind me that no-one is exempt from this type of abuse, but equally it doesn’t take much to react. That there is, within each of us, a vulnerability that can give rise to bad behaviour. Reactive and angry. Thankfully, I have woken up, bruised from a bad dream but with the hope that out of this experience, new growth is born.
As you listen, as their tales unfold, you slip into a revery. Neural pathways in your mind sorting out what is relevant to you. Picking at my nail varnish, crossing and uncrossing my legs, shifting in my seat. Busy little synapses, ‘scrap that’, ‘nope, no recognition there’, ‘fuck sake that’s not me’.. until there’s a whir.. a little shake up, ‘Got one!! Got one! Store that shit!’.. excitedly the recognition is put into a little box, ready to be used later. There were a few tonight. The metaphor of the mind like a washing machine, except mine is stuck on spin.. 1400 rpm. As I walk home, it’s slowed but there is a definite residue slipping out of the soap drawer. I realise that these past few months, I haven’t cleaned my mind. Mould and gunk building up, slowing the release of the water to clean the insides of the machine. But still I poured more detergent, more fabric conditioner inside, in the desperate hope that those clothes would still smell nice and good and everything that they should. Until the machine broke. I feel like an excited washing machine purchaser who has just been to a conference about buying new washing machines and fixing the ones that can be fixed. I have a little skippity skip home clutching my new manual that has been so kindly bought for me and I, for the first time in months, can see a future that is not only bright but fucking luminous.
It is tinted with a sadness, so deep it aches. My insides churn at the thought of their pain. My pain. I have left someone behind, their machine is still broken and as we spoke tonight about remembering those with broken machines, tears slid down my cheeks. Apparently you can’t fix other peoples machines, they have to do it themselves. I don’t like that. In my Utopia I would be the Ultimate Repair Woman.. fixing machines with abandon.
But instead here I am, alone with Tarka And Qara, 2 of the Greatest Cats Known to Catkind, sitting in silence, recording my feelings about going to the first ever washing machine fixing conference where I acknowledged that I, Chloe, had a broken washing machine. Strength is building and whilst I know that there is a long road ahead, I am hopeful and grateful to be walking it.
Photo by Hilary Halliwell on Pexels.com
I have been found out. Yep, no longer able to hide behind functioning alcoholic… now just alcoholic. Intervention has been staged and I rattle inside my house as my mess is mopped up behind me. The MO’s birthday ruined by the dry retching he can hear and the tears that steadily fall. The kids still here but being looked after by a ‘sound’ adult. A GP review has confirmed I need help and I await to self refer on Monday to a local organisation. I can’t face an AA meeting tonight. Maybe tomorrow. I tried to discharge the brakes as I landed but they wouldn’t budge. The final blackout too much for my fragile mind to contend with. Like sailors on the dockside, watching their boat submerge “she’s going under chaps! She’s going under!”, my brain cells giving way. I can’t speak these words. Only write them. I can’t stop the tremors or quieten the heart but somewhere, in between those clouds, a glint of light catches my eye. This is my rock bottom. I have found it at last.
Today has been the first time that I have ever had the slightest inkling of what it is to experience Christmas when you don’t want it. When you aren’t ready for it and when it doesn’t fit.
There is a strange atmosphere in the house. Just me and the boys trying to be festive. The EO has been granted the freedom of staying somewhere light and airy until I collect her tomorrow (Xmas day). The feeling of guilt precipitates the urge for annihilation but is controlled by the frontal cortex. Most of the time. I wonder what mess I would be in if I was on my own this evening. To what lengths would I attempt to block out the screams?
I count the previous years when Xmas managed to fit. Sometimes a bit baggy or maybe on the toight side.. but fitting nonetheless. This year, it’s like it hasn’t even been sewn together.. the sides flap in the emptiness.
Now in London, it’s Boxing Day. I have spent some glorious time with my very funny younger brothers.. reducing me and the EO to squealing “Stop it! We have weak pelvic floors!”. Even watching Hereditary failed to scare, the constant narration in the room wondering why the 16 year old son looked like he was an adopted 30 year old instead. The most amazing food cooked by my stepdad.. I managed to forget my Shit Vegetarian status once more.
I drink, knowing it will be noted but not stopped. My stepfather quietly lets the reins drop – he never uses them – we both know that will need to change sooner rather than later. For my children’s sake, for the sake of my degree, for the sake of my sanity.
The anxiety still bubbling away like a pan on simmer. As the boys and I leave late to go to their friend’s annual Xmas day party, I feel the panic and wonder if I will have to leave. Instead I was greeted with such enthusiasm from their school hood friends, some of whom referred to me as the Illusive Sister. Getting back after 6am probably sums up how much fun it was. Discussing so many topics from North Pole marine conservation to how not to fall for inappropriate people with another girl, 10 years junior.. who is entering the similar whirlwind that I am untangling my battered emotions from . And now? Still crying. Happy that I could forget just for a short time, how raw and vulnerable I am but now the hangover adds to the agony. But I might just get to a meeting tonight. Sobriety, I hope will be less illusive than me.
And tomorrow as I drive home, maybe the longing to drive into a wall will be less demanding.
As I am driving, I feel a surge of anger and pain. Grief, it swells and builds like a wave, gathering momentum until the only exit is via my mouth… I scream as sobs escape. Tears streaming down my face as I try and ensure that I can see where I am going. That I can manage to get to the destination without causing an accident.
This has been my reality so, so many times over the last year. I feel like my insides are barren. Each time new growth occurs, another wildfire rips through burning everything in sight. I crawl through the burning wreckage, realising that my wreckage is nothing in comparison to some.. but it is still real. It is still burning. It still burns.
Each decision I make is done as if under water. Muted, muffled and without clear direction. Something innate within me pushing me ahead.. one step closer, one step nearer the end goal.
This year’s emphasis has been on loss. Loss of those close, loss of those dear. Loss of control. One foot I put in front of the other.. slowly treading. Slowly hoping that instinct will guide me to the end goal.
I sit here with the Xmas tree lights glowing, cats finally happy next to me on the sofa (no dog in sight) and I pray that 2018 can slip by, its final moments without any more pain. As the lights twinkle, I hope that each tiny surge of electricity is an indication of new life, new goals, new hope.
Its been a funny old day. A lot of ruminating to be done, which to be honest is pretty difficult as you are running around on a poorly staffed ward full of patients that are anxious, in pain and some with a little bit of dementia thrown in. At one point we ran out of commodes and that is never likely to be a good situation to be in, surely?
I haven’t had all that much time to think about the fact that it is our 8 year wedding anniversary today and I appear to have lost my husband by the wayside. I didn’t expect to be a single mother again either but with the addition of two more children. Our LO was adamant he wasn’t staying with me last night. After two nights at his father’s he was determined to stay every night with him. But eat at mine. (Possibly not such a good idea, as his father is a trained chef and I clearly, am not). He clung on to his dad who tried and failed to extricate himself. The horror reflected in our eyes at the screams and tears. Eventually I managed to stop him from following out of the front door but instead he tried to launch himself out of the front room window. I held him as he pushed and pulled away from me. Eventually he flung his little tear stained arms around me and buried his head into my neck, sobbing. the MO went out into the garden unable to cope and the EO fled upstairs, enveloped in her own PMT misery and anger at life. Tears silently fell down my cheeks as I told the LO that I knew, I understood and I was sorry.
Being sober has been my main weapon – I feel like a somewhat fatter and less fit Xena – belly bulging under my breast plates – wielding a shield purposefully. Being sober has been a godsend. An unknown strength has manifested inside and whilst I wobble from time to time, as some of the reality ekes out like a poison, I seem to have focus. My heart aches and I feel winded – how can I be without my best friend; my soul mate? – yet I somehow put one foot in front of the other.. and keep walking.
We ran out of loo roll yesterday. I am not sure how because there was about one and a half left and we are only a family of 5, not 405, but it happened. By about 4pm. Now, we could have gone out and bought some but we were having a stand off, Mr P and I. Neither of us had got dressed so were still slouching around in pyjamas etc. And the boys didn’t care because they had already had emptied for the day and therefore didn’t feel the need to worry about the lack of hygiene that the EO and I were faced with. I managed to find some kitchen roll and I yelled a lot about how unfair it was that the MO thought it was ok to use almost an entire roll for his derriere and he stamped and shouted back that it wasn’t him, and the YO solemnly nodded in agreement with me.. in order to tactfully avoid blame.
And as I eked out the kitchen roll remnants between the EO and I, I thought about toilet paper and how it came about and WTF we did beforehand. My mum has always said that actually wiping yourself and then washing your hands is probably much better for the environment but then surely you’re having to use more water = not so good for environment? (Edit: I reread this and laughed at the fact I was more concerned about water usage than having piss or shit on my hands). Regardless I had to resort to this by 9am this morning (hayfever and peeing took its toll on our reserves) and by midday, had purchased toilet paper.
I lovingly stacked them in the bathroom in beautiful towers of three. I am considering getting doors on the cupboard, and barbed wire and a keypad lock that only I and Mr P know the combination to….or maybe I could hide millions of rolls under the bathroom floorboards.. either way… I am very happy and feel smug and secure and safe in the knowledge that we now have toilet paper… Long May it Last.