The thing about drinking is that it’s fun until it’s not. Lowered inhibitions are mildly dangerous when you’re a drunk at a college party but an entirely different animal when you’re a bipolar mother of young children.
An argument with your husband turns into a glass of wine, which turns into seven glasses of wine, which lead your mind into darknesses too dense for light to cut. And when the wine consumption occurs after said children’s bedtime, there is no longer anyone in the room to remind you that tomorrow is worth experiencing.
Suicide is something I think about every day. Not in the hey-let’s-do-this way, but more like I consider the opportunity, then pass it up for something better. Living. It’s part of the deal; existing with this illness means trying on that hat and putting it back on the shelf. I try to avoid alcohol at all cost. I tell people it’s because it makes me so sick. What I really mean is that I avoid it because it blurs the images of my kids’ faces, distancing me from the intensity of their attachment to me, weakening the tethers connecting me to this good earth. It makes a way out seem too reasonable, better for everyone. The pain ebbs, worsens, until nothing matters but silencing it all. Drunkenness covers me like a thick coat of paint, slows my breathing, makes facial expression near impossible.
It’s our youngest child’s first birthday, my husband just said that things between us were so bad that he’d leave me if not for our kids, and I’m more intoxicated than I’ve been in the nearly three years we’ve been parents. I’ve been unmedicated for the better part of more than three years to protect pregnancies and nursing babies. This moment, right now, is my low. I’ve never been more frightened, or not. Maybe I mean lethargic. In this moment, I care about nothing. I need help. A man in a cape. A magic potion. Something resembling a sunrise, a glimmer of light in a lover’s eye. A poem. A good story. Anything.
And then I sleep. Dawn uncovers a sliver of hope in my chest, and also on my throbbing hangover. I am concurrently ashamed and relieved. Today, it’s a dear friend’s birthday. My tiny girl repeats me saying thank you. She says, momma. Over and over. And over and over. I may not believe in God, but I can’t shake the feeling that somebody’s trying to make today a gentler place on purpose, trying to remind me of something important.
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April 28, 2012. That’s the day I had my last drop of alcohol. I didn’t quit due to health reasons or ultimatums. I wasn’t a bad, mean, or violent drunk. I just found that the more I drank, the less of me I became. It was horribly depressing that something had such a control over me, and I was petrified to keep drinking, thinking that eventually it would be the end of me. I think I was actually more afraid for my kids. I am so close with them, and the thought of doing something that could take me away from them, and how that would affect their lives, was almost too much at times. The other thing that scared the shit out of me was how my friends and family would adjust to me being sober. I literally felt that my entire personality was built with booze. It was truly like “damned if you do, damned if you don’t.”
Needless to say, I did it. I quit for my kids. I quit for my wife. I quit for me. It wasn’t the easiest thing I ever did, but it was the most noble. On so many levels. Please know that you are not alone. Don’t ever hesitate to reach out at any time if you need to talk, or vent, or whatever. tom@daddyanarchy.com
If someone would’ve told me life would be this hard, I would have clung to the inside of the uterus that birthed me until kingdom come. Good thing no one did; I really fucking love to write, and I imagine doing much of anything from the inside of a uterus would be difficult… and slippery.
What I’m trying to say is, thank you. Thank you, thank you. My gratitude for support is marrow-deep. It forces me to put down tender new roots, to face my decisions, to make better ones next time. To create. To be curious. To strive for compassion. It’s so good to hear a happy continuance to a story similar to mine; thank you for sharing yours.
Oh my girl. I admire your honesty, applaud your courage & revel in your vulnerability. As Tom says, you’re not alone. Love you.
Pam, this was so hard to write. It’s even harder to read in the daylight. The piece came from a terror of myself I’d not felt in a long time, and from a moment i which I lost sight. I thank you. Truly thank you.
This is really brave of you. Honesty can be very freeing.
Much love.
Thank you, Melanie… indeed, a great weight lifted when I wrote this. Just to put the words on paper, to document my low. Because even a 14-diaper, super shitty (pun intended) day can’t get worse than this. The really bad days put everything else into perspective. Much love back at you. ♥︎
Thank you for writing this piece. That’s all I can say right now about it. Just thank you thank you thank you.
Your simple comment = shivers up my spine. Seriously. This is why we write, right? We have no idea what people on the reading end need, and if just one person out there needs exactly what we created at the VERY moment we created it, our work is done. You’re welcome, and thank you back. Sisterhood is golden.
I hope that you wake up each and every day with something to live for. And, when the demons come, I hope you face them head on and fight. Fight like the brave person that you are.
Besos, Sarah
Dear Sarah, thank you. Everyone has brought something unique and incredibly compassionate to this table. Fighting is the goal. Every day, because when the sun shines… damn, this life is good.
What a beautifully written post on such a painful topic. I must second Sarah. This is what I hope for you. Fight on courageous mama.
Cordelia, thank you. Sometimes it’s so hard to call the things we create beautiful, especially if the feelings they forge in us are so dark, so ugly. One more vote for fighting… I guess it wins? 🙂
What a brave post… Know you are not alone, keep fighting and find the best help for you 🙂
Heather, thank you. The more I write and share, the more pain I unearth in other people’s lives, which is incredibly reparative for all involved. Hurting, and healing, together is how we stop just covering our wounds and start scarring over them. And, yes, help. It’s all (professional) hands on deck these days… I’m lucky to have access to top-notch care. I thank the universe every. day. for it.
This was good and rare to find. I’ve had depression my whole life, but not diagnosed until my 30’s. I had severe post-partum depression after each of my children. There was a time in my life that I kept a razor blade in my car all the time. I needed the comfort of knowing that if I absolutely had to escape the darkness, I could. You have young children and are in the midst of the hardest years. I pray that, as happened with me, things will get easier over time. And that decision to skip the booze? Really a good choice. Keep writing, keep loving, keep fighting . You go, girl.