Mixed Emotions
Feeling guilty because I haven’t called my sponsor in some days. Feeling guiltier still because I haven’t wanted to talk with her (avoidance? I’m not sure). Also feeling pissed off because she hasn’t called me, either. So, perhaps I’m imposing a bit of a stand-off … which is silly because the only one I’m hurting is me.
So, then I’m back to guilty. But oh-so-happy to be home. And feeling something like anticipation for my counseling appointment tomorrow. I’m a bit worried about the reckoning for drinking but not even really worried about that. It’s not as if anyone can force me into anything and when I check in with myself about how I might feel if the doctor does, in fact say, “You need to stop drinking,” I think my response would be, “OK. It’s probably going to be tough, but if you think I should, I’ll give it a go.”
Not resistance, exactly; skepticism is probably a better adjective. Not skepticism that I should stop drinking, mind you, but skepticism that I can. Not that I can’t. Bother. I know what I’m trying to say but it’s not coming out right. Anyway.
My sweet husband told me he went gambling with some chums while I was away. He said he felt guilty and worried I’d be upset. I was not upset, especially because they were simply (grown-up) boys blowing off steam from a long and trying week, and he only lost $25 after gambling for a few hours. Compare this to my latest slip where I sank $800 and would have gone for more if I could have gotten to it.
My sweet husband is, most definitely, not a compulsive gambler, as I wouldn’t have wanted any chums around me when I was gambling and I would have easily tossed away $2500 in an hour given the chance. No, I was not upset; I was glad he had a fun boys’ night out. And I meant it.
I did tell him, though, that I likely would feel differently if he left me at home - behind, abandoned - to go gambling. But since I wasn’t here anyway, and since he’s not a compulsive gambler like me, and since it was all in good fun, he had my full and complete blessing have a night out with the fellas.
Oh, to be able to gamble like normal people. But that’s simply not to be for me. It is like being diabetic and thinking, “Oh, if only I could eat cake and drink lemonade like other people.” It simply can’t be because what happens to me when I gamble is a bit like an involuntary diabetic seizure. I can say with complete honesty that I’m not entirely in control of myself once I start gambling because I’ve never had those kinds of compulsions in any other area of my life or during any other activity - except maybe hair pulling, which is certainly a compulsive action.
Even drinking isn’t like that. I drink too much, to be sure, but when I’m ready to stop or it feels like I’ve had enough, I stop. I’ll make some tea or have some pop, and it’s fine. With gambling, there is no “enough.” Sometimes no matter how much I want to stop or know I should stop or am even temporarily forced to stop by running out of money, I don’t stop. I keep playing, and I find another way to fund it.
I tell you, though, mercifully the cravings aren’t there. But they weren’t particularly there in the two months-plus leading up to my slip, either. So, lack of cravings doesn’t mean I’m safe; it just means a lack of cravings.
So, I will call my sponsor today. I don’t want to. I really don’t know if it’s “my disease talking”, as they say, or if she’s really not the best avenue for me. But until I’m sure one way or the other, I’ll stick with her.