Sick and Tired of Being Sick and Tired

As it happens, I did not sleep any better last night, but that’s to be expected this early on. Add in one whiny dog that I’m baby-sitting, and the phrase “sick and tired of being sick and tired” seems appropriate, although it has been running through my head for a few months. It’s an oft-heard cliche heard in my GA meetings and I also recall it from past AA meetings.

I have to admit, once I got over the fear of what the 12-step meetings were about I rather came to like them. I like the universality of it, the fact that all of these faces that are so different from mine are also wearing masks behind which lie racing minds, regretful decisions and dogged fears and worries just like mine. Pardon the new-ageyness of it but, man, it feels good to be so connected especially after years and years of increasing isolation.

I’ve never once felt judged in a meeting. Well, let me rephrase that: I’ve judged myself harshly but I’ve never felt judged by another person.

Are there folks at meetings I don’t particularly like? Of course.

Are there folks at meetings I don’t particularly understand or identify with? Of course.

Do people sometimes ramble on about things that I do not deem particularly helpful to recovery - theirs or anyone else’s? Of course.

Do I frequently get annoyed that we have to read the same passages over and over and over and over and over again? Of course. But, for that point, I’ve tried to think of the re-reading of passages as meditation. It’s helped quell my impatience somewhat.

But, another cliche, I’ve never felt worse after leaving a meeting. Never. Not once.

Do I think, however, that 12-step meetings are all I need? No. No, I do not. I think it’s great if they are the be-all, end-all for folks but that doesn’t seem to be the case for me.

In fact, I was lovingly pushed by my husband to make an appointment with a counselor. For the first time in probably forever I was honest when the evaluating nurse asked how often I drank. “Six or seven nights a week. Not always, but more often than not.”

I was honest when she asked how long this had been going on. “Years.”
I was honest when she asked if I had depression and anxiety. “Yes. It ramps up when I’m gambling, which tends to make me drink more than I typically would, but, yes, I have depression and anxiety.”

I was honest when she asked if I’d ever felt suicidal or homicidal. “No suicidal, per se, but I often think it would be nice to just take myself off somewhere, away from everybody else and the world.”

It seems to me I haven’t gotten any better by lying and, as worrisome as I am what being honest means for what lies ahead, I guess I have to remember that I can ultimately make any choices I want. I’m grateful that I’m still at a point where the choices are mine to make and not forced upon me by a committal or arrest. I don’t think it’s hyperbole to say that those outcomes were too far down the line, honestly.

Wow. Phew. Feels good to get this junk out.