Feeling Blue

I’m having a bad day.

I didn’t start off this way. I started off in… a decent mood. I got sleep last night. Zonked out b/c of taking a Lunesta (which I haven’t done often lately). I showered, left the house, stopped at Walmart to finish off the kids’ school supply shopping, then grabbed a coffee and read for a few minutes in my car before I had to be in at work. All in all, a normal start to my day.

At work, though, stuff started to happen. My manager got called to come get her son at daycare b/c he’d been in contact with Covid. She brought him back to work with her, where her brother–one of our leasing agents–decided to entertain the toddler for the next couple of hours while she attempted to work. Because of this, I had to answer phones, help residents, assist contractors, etc. while also trying to get my deposits done. It was hectic. Stressful. When my manager announced that she was going home for the day at 11:15 AM and that she wouldn’t be back the next, I mentally starting preparing myself for her long absence, as both she and her brother are gone all of next week due to a family vacation. So yep, not a great morning.

This afternoon–already in the “acting manager” role–I had to take a phone call with a pissed off resident. For 15 to 20 minutes I had to sit silently (REALLY practicing my listening skills by not interrupting) and basically take it up the ass while this dickwad chewed me out over something I had no control over, something that was in fact his own fault, or at least his insurance agent’s fault. When he was done with his tirade, I could barely get a word in b/c he kept butting in. I finally just shook my head, said “We will do our best to see this never happens again, Brian. Our apologies.” I hung up the phone, gnashing on nails.

My anger, though, quickly spiraled into something darker. Sadder. A stream of despondency coursed through my system–my head, my heart, my spirit. I felt depressed. Overwhelmed by it in fact. I almost made an excuse to leave, said I was sick. I wanted to go home and crawl into bed, turn off the lights, and curl up under the covers. I did not want to speak to anyone. Instantly the thought of having a super strong drink entered my mind. I pictured saying, “Fuck it,” tonight and just pouring myself a whiskey and diet, knowing that my husband was going to do this for himself after the dinner hour. Seeing him sitting next to me on the couch, unwinding with a drink in hand while he does his mock drafts on his computer–I pictured this, and then I pictured how hard it was going to be for me to make myself a cup of tea.

Tomorrow is Friday. It is the start of another weekend. It is the beginning of a fight. A constant battle of denying the “wolfie” voice in my head that SCREAMS at me to have a drink. To fix one as soon as I get off work. To savor one as I watch a movie with my kids, with my husband who is drinking steadily beside me. Tomorrow I go into war like all the other weekends. I lie to myself, try to convince myself that I can have just as much fun ordering club soda and cranberry as I can ordering Maker’s Manhattans. I push myself, really push myself to fast forward acting out on a craving, to “see” them through their end–me waking up in the middle of the night feeling like shit and then wasting most of the next day b/c of lack of energy, having indigestion issues, and being moody. But still it’s a struggle. A real struggle. And in this struggle I am all alone. The people closest to me, my husband, my family and friends, they all live on a different continent. I am an island. We are separated by water, by an ocean of booze, that I can’t, I can’t drink to cross. If I start I will never stop. But no one wants to come to my island. No one can even visit very long. Stupid me, I thought my oldest sister lived here too for a while, but I’ve found out just recently that she only pretends to her husband. She has waded back into the waters.

Sometimes I hear a faint signal, a few voices reaching out to me from the cyberworld, from Facebook and Twitter, but they don’t know me, they don’t care about me, they aren’t here and present in my life. I am still on my island.

I think about AA but then I dismiss it b/c I don’t believe in its philosophy besides the trusting in the Lord part. I’ll ALWAYS do my best to trust in the Lord. I wish…I wish I had something in Omaha akin to Soberistas. Some sober meet-up club where you could go to events and meet likeminded people, where you could find friends, find real-life accountability partners, where you could enjoy social outings without feeling the pressure/craving to drink. But that’s sadly in the way far off future, if it ever comes to Omaha at all.

So yeah, I’ve got to find a way to not just live on my island–because what kind of life is that–but find a way to THRIVE. I’ve got to build my own little hut, forage for my own meals, find ways to occupy my time, provide amusement, excitement, hope. I have to be my own cheerleader, be able to pull myself up when I’m down. I’ve got to be a GREAT mom to my kids and so I must do this.  I’ll keep reading my quit lit books, keep checking out This Naked Mind podcasts, keep posting on Facebook and Twitter, keep making a stab at writing again, and I’ll treat myself lovingly. Kindly. Delicately if I have to. I’ll do this for me, and maybe… I’ll find an inner strength I never knew I had, I’ll feel God in my soul, hear His whisper that I’ve got this. He is with me. I am NOT alone.