There’s a pressure in my head, which is a relatively new thing, too. Like, I can feel my blood pressure rising. That scares me. I’m not afraid of dying, but I am afraid of living a less-than life.

Going to get up to the nearby fitness center tonight and renew my enthusiasm for exercise.

So, where’ve I been? Back down in the deep dark. I can tell you honestly because you won’t judge me that I’ve been having thoughts of suicide. Not in an aggressive way, but more passively, like, “Well, I could do that.”

But it’s always when I’m drunk, late at night. These thoughts never come when I’m sober. Man, everybody tells you it’s a progressive disease and, buddy, they aren’t lying. Even in the midst of my gambling, I didn’t actively think about suicide. It’s the drinking. It’s such a major depressant on top of depression on top of depression on top of depression.

Nope, time to cut it out again and hopefully forever. I mean, honestly, it brings me nothing and I remember just how good I felt during my 90 day run and how after the first few days, it really was pretty easy. I mean, it really was. And just removing the hangovers from my life, my GOD, it’s like I was another person.

...

What is wrong with me? I’d like to think it’s something as simple as hormones or stress or loneliness.

But what if I’m an alcoholic? What then? It runs in my blood. As does depression (which I have).

I just can’t let go of the fact that I was REALLY HAPPY not drinking. I know I was. So, why am I so reluctant to go back to that healthy happy space?

Because while I was happy, I wasn’t happy in my life.

Le boom.

I questioned a lot of my choices. Like: my husband. My home. My dog. My job (derp). My not singing. My … everything.

That was uncomfortable.

Questioning myself and KNOWING that I’m making a bad decision by drinking, well, far easier.

Shit. If I’ve learned anything, though, it’s that knowledge doesn’t equal action.

Shit, and shit again.

Not in a melodramatic way, but a “I have chest pain and tingling and nausea” way.

Do you know what stopped me from checking out an urgent care? Shame that I’ve been drinking heavily for a few weeks. Figured I was either just severely hungover or I brought the heart attack on myself for abusing my body.

That’s sad. I’m 34. I have a lot of life in me yet. I carry so much shame and disregard for myself.

I need to stop drinking. This is a fact.

For many years, I’ve played out how I’d quit my job. No dramatics, just quiet smack downs. Was just doing that. Instead of quitting, I pretend to quit.

I wasted today, probably one of the most gorgeous days in the history of everness. I wasted it because I was exhausted (hungover) and depressed.

Fuck this shit, seriously, fuck it. An escalating disease, hell yeah. I don’t think I’ve ever been this bad before, except maybe before I knew it wasn’t normal to drink like crazy every night and fall asleep on your bathroom floor.

Now I know, and I still fall asleep places I shouldn’t. FUCK THIS SHIT!!!

Please let me be done, lord. I want to be done.

And I found a man who cared for his friends, his work and his wife. So.

Also spent last night camping with my sisters and didn’t drink - and didn’t want to drink except for when I felt alone and. Left behind by the group.

Then, I felt like drinking. But I didn’t, i stayed sober with my family, until today, when I went wild.

Am tired now but needed to document.

I hadn’t talked to my dad for a while, about six weeks. We don’t talk ever day or even every week, but that’s a long time for us. Mostly just busy, slightly depressed. The usual.

When I did call, I felt a bit of a guilt trip (or just imagined it, most likely), but I kept thinking, “Well, hell, you didn’t call me, either.”

I keep replaying that loop in my head. Lord, can you help me press pause on this one? I’ll try to do better on calling him and other family members if you let me ease up on myself. And him. They’re probably busy, too. And blaming (or trying to dodge blame) is really pretty futile because people are going to think what they’re going to think.

It’s been a rough time at work. I’m getting beat up by enough people; I don’t need to add myself to the list.

Went to a GA meeting last night after a loooong day of work because that’s what I needed. The medicine analogy is a little worn out by now, but it’s fucking true. Sometimes you take medicine because you have active symptoms and it makes the symptoms go away. Sometimes you take medicine even if you feel fine to keep the symptoms from coming back.

I am somewhere in between “active symptoms” and “fine” and it was a good meeting to go to, as there were people there - one who’s vascilated between quitting and gambling since they started coming months ago, and one who had a significant amount of clean time and relapsed a few months ago and hasn’t been able to get any traction.

Both were miserable and struggling with themselves and the world, and I don’t want to go back there. I was exhausted just listening to them (in a compassionate way, not, like, annoyed).

It was a reminder I needed...

Well, shit. I don’t even know where to start. Part of the problem, I guess. I had a REALLY bad week last week in terms of abusing my poor body and drinking. Partly hormonal, partly emotional, partly physical, partly I just didn’t want to be where in the hell I was.

I was hung over every day, sleep deprived (by my own hand) and depressed as hell.

I abstained Friday and was so glad for it Saturday.

I was feeling good Saturday and fine with not drinking and then - whoomp - I went and bought a bottle of wine (pink - I have been drinking pink wine lately and I couldn’t tell you why), and mixed two vodka drinks before I opened it, and had a few glasses of red after that.

I got shitfaced and tried to have some kind of serious conversation with my husband.

I didn’t “intend” to drink Sunday, but I did because I was so hungover. Thankfully, I stopped on the early side, gradually powering...

Had a sad, graphic dream about my mom last night. No better, no worse than what happened in real life. But I suppose that’s the key: It made me relive what happened in real life, and I awoke in the midst of an “oh, fuck, what do I do?"dream.

Been thinking a lot lately about cheating on my husband. I wouldn’t choose to call it that. I would call it ‘exploring’ or ‘ experimenting’ or ‘seeking’ but, let’s be clear, it’s cheating.

He’s a good, kind man. He’d do anything I ask. He just physically can’t do things in bed. Not even talking about the obvious (although, yes, sometimes that, too, which weighs heavy on me and makes me doubt myself) but, mechanically, he is just not able to do what it takes for me.

Which, again, makes me doubt myself. Perhaps if I wanted less … was easier to please … was not so selfish …
L
Man. In a dark, depressed hole. It’s late. I am drunk. I want to continue...