I was debating on ever actually writing this post but, well, I guess it's all pretty common knowledge (to those who know me in person, that is.) Today is my 7 year "sober-versary." For those who don't know, your "sober-versary" is the anniversary of the day you get clean and sober. In my case, I'm a recovering binge alcoholic. Actually, I'm a major depressive (and a whole bunch other things) who used alcohol (plus my prescription medications) to self-medicate. Seven years ago tonight, I was at the absolute bottom in terms of my life. I had to look up to see grass and dirt, I was that far down. I was in the middle of a major depressive cycle and it came around fast. In less than 4 weeks, I went from being my usual self to being someone I didn't recognize and, honestly, someone I didn't like. I thought life really wasn't worth living and planned out yet another suicide attempt (I've lost count of how many times I had tried in the past.) This time, though, I was hell-bent on not getting caught ahead of time. I spent those last 4 weeks to plan and to make sure I appeared as "normal" as possible, so my loved ones wouldn't figure out something was wrong and interfere.
Well, June 29th arrived and I knew this was going to be it. DH and I had plans to go out with a bunch of friends (we were celebrating the publishing of a friend of mine's book), my oldest 2 DD's were away at summer camp, and my oldest niece was babysitting the younger 2. DH and I went out and I intentionally had way too much drink, went home after that lovely evening, and swallowed half a month's prescription of Oxycodone, left over from when I had my tubes tied after DD#4 was born 7 months before. Long story short, DH realized something was wrong when I wouldn't answer his knock on our bathroom door and I ended up in the hospital, enduring 2 rounds of that nasty charcoal slushy stuff, and finding out I had a .42 BAC. Because of my background and the fact it was a rather serious attempt, I spent a week (involuntarily at first) getting "help". During that time, I realized that I came from a long line of depressive alcoholics (my father, in particular) and if I didn't want to end up like him (emotionally detached from loved ones and dead of a heart attack at 53), well, I had some work to do. I used that week to detox from alcohol, accept the fact I am a binger, and that I needed a lot more psychiatric care than I ever thought possible. With the help of an amazing therapist (and a psychiatrist who loved to write prescriptions - let's just say that I was more than happy to replace her) and an unbelievably loving husband, I was able to pull through. I learned that, while I could say "no" to the first drink with no problem, being unable to say "no" to drinks #2, 3, 4, ... 10 was a problem. I chose to get sober. I had to face my demons without my trusty vodka shots and Scotch on the rocks with a beer chaser. But I faced them. And they were scary. And horrible. And terrifying. But I did it. And you know what? I survived.
If I had succeeded 7 years ago, I would never have seen so many wonderful things. Like DD#1 graduating from high school and heading off to start her life as an amazing young adult, DD#2 being the ONLY girl in her PSEO construction management program (and seriously kicking butt, at that!), DD#3 going from being a toddler to being a tween-age carbon copy of my late mother, DD#4 growing from an infant to a really cool and amazing 7 year old, and DH being his usual wonderful self (and quitting smoking, which was HUGE for him!) I would have missed out on so much good that it makes me feel guilty. Then I remember that I have major depressive disorder and I really can't control how or when it's going to hit me, and that isn't my fault. My brain is wired a little different than others and I have to work a little harder to be "normal" (or as close to normal as I'm willing to get. lol)
While I would love to celebrate such a bittersweet day with a nice glass of pinot grigio, I know I'm not able to just enjoy one glass and it's just not worth it. So I'll settle for a scoop of sea salt caramel gelato and a glass of Diet Pepsi and enjoy the fact that I'm here. I may not be perfect and I may still have lots of issues to work though, but I'm here and I'm not alone. I have DH, the girls, my friends and my family to keep me going. And that's all I really need. I need to believe that tomorrow's going to be better than the day before if only because I'm still here. And despite what that nasty bitch "depression" tells me, I mean a whole lot to a lot of people and that I'm needed and loved. Some days are better than others, naturally, but it's okay. I'm going to get through it.
Here's to us survivors. It gets better.
Mary
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