And She’s Back
Lady Justice is blindfolded so that she cannot be biased—her decisions should be made based on the balance of her scale. Why? Because Lady Justice is a lady. If she used her mind’s eye to make decisions, she would do what the rest of us ladies do and see what “should” be, rather than what “is.” I’m guilty of it. We’re all guilty of it. There are a lot of crimes that are punishable by law, but there is no system to hold us accountable for the injustice of choosing to “seem” rather than to “be.” Probably because that crime hurts mainly ourselves, not another human being. Even so, we are doing a significant amount of damage that eventually makes its way to other people. The erosion starts on our shoreline, then works its way to the foundations of those closest to us, then spreads like a windshield crack through our entire world. Yet, we keep behaving along the lines of the ideal image instead of the construct of reality, never learning that the lie, the façade, the costume… is always more damaging than the truth.
Lately, I haven’t been bored, but I have been boring. I get it. I still post every week, but nothing resonates with my readers or myself. Once you’ve heard someone tell the truth, you can easily sniff-out their lies. When you’ve seen someone splay their organs for examination, you know when they are holding the lapels of their robe closed. If you’ve heard John Mayer’s “Continuum” album, you are emotionally unmoved by “Sob Rock.” If you know me, then you know I’ve been hiding. Again.
My lesson should have been learned. The years I wasted being drunk were not a continuous party, or a middle-finger to the world, or a break that I thought I deserved. Alcohol was my hiding place; it was how I took cover from my fears, from my failures, and frankly, from my true self. There was a little bit of middle-finger in it only because I felt like the people I relied on the most could not protect me from the universe the way that being drunk did. It is fascinating how rapidly a grasp for comfort becomes a full-blown addiction, and how rapidly addiction turns an empathetic, kind, overly-nervous human into a total monster.
When people ask me why I started my blog, the answer is only two-fold and, therefore, simple. First of all, I wanted to preach the reality of addiction, for better or worse, and create a connection between addicts, but also connect addicts to the rest of the world. Secondly, I did it for me. I had to shed my camouflage and my dignity so I could approach society in a real way. If there was room for doubt, I would move into that room, set-up WiFi and a mini-bar and never leave it. I know myself too well. So, I started writing. I got honest. I got raw. I went to places in my own head that would terrify my overly-qualified psychiatrist…. Which is probably why it’s been so obvious lately that I stopped reaching into the echoing crevice of my soul for inspiration and have instead been plucking from a sidewalk crack.
One of the many problems of having addicts as an audience is that they will use any reason to justify a relapse, and I never want my words to be that reason. It’s absolutely counterintuitive knowing that the worst thing you can do to an addict is coddle them. If someone is going to relapse, they are going to relapse regardless of if you offer them a French fry or slap them across the face. So, there’s lie #1 that I’ve told. I haven’t been dull and vague lately to protect my addict constituents, I have been dull and vague to protect myself from embarrassment. If I were being and honest and I were also blindfolded and holding scale, my reasons for not drinking and my reasons to drink have become scarily balanced.
The disconnect between drunks and the people who wish they weren’t a drunk is this: the reasons I have to be sober are everywhere. Not just reasons to be sober, but reasons to be my best self on every level are visible, palpable, and all around me. That was the case when I was still drinking too. The problem is that my reasons for drinking are invisible, difficult to explain, but very, very real. As real and invisible as oxygen, as terrifying and untamable as a poltergeist. They never change. I change, sometimes, in the way I twirl around them, but that ebbs and flows depending on the season. Additionally, when faced with all the reasons we have to be sober, our frustration over having to be sober is heightened.
Let me put it to you this way… I spent most of the summer living with my sister, brother-in-law, and nephew: they are three of my best and boldest reasons for continuing to push forward in this clean and sober lifestyle. As much as I love words, the words do not exist to express the love I have in my heart for these people. Having a good relationship with them again is what keeps the blood pumping through my veins. I know better now. I do better now. My scales tip accordingly now. … still… I can put that precious child into his crib at night, watch his demure hands and feet nest into the surrounding blankets and clasp onto his favorite teddy bear. My heart will nearly explode with affection for that baby boy. I’ll back away slowly, pull the nursery door shut, already praying that morning will come quickly so I can see his beaming smile again. As I turn to walk down the hallway—there it is. Where it has always been—skulking, lurking, scheming in the dark corner… faceless, pointless, made of shadows, screaming at me that I should “be afraid! Be very afraid!”
The dim beast doesn’t offer me a drink. He doesn’t mention alcohol at all- he never did. He was there when I was 8-years-old and he’s there now. He exists when booze is part of my life and he exists when it isn’t. All he ever does is startle me and then remind me to be scared. Of everything. I don’t know why I find him so believable but I do. You wonder why I spent years drinking so much and so often when everyone begged me not to? He’s why. Alcohol, so far, was the only thing that made him disappear. I have no credibility when I try to explain my plight because, as I said, this demon: invisible as oxygen. To everyone else.
There are times when I feel strong. I can walk right by that foggy fucker, raise a middle finger, and strut on with my day. There are also times when he wins. I attempt to ignore him, but that husky and commanding voice calls out to me and forcefully whispers, “psst! Kara… remember, you live alone again. You know where your mind can go. You know how dark it can be. There’s no one and nothing around to save you from yourself but a disabled cat and the sitcom reruns you keep playing to try and force a better mood. Wouldn’t it be easier to just stop fighting…? Again?”
Yes. It would be easier. The beast wouldn’t scare me so much if he weren’t right about that. He wouldn’t scare me so much if he weren’t so unpredictable and prevailing. The truth is, it does get dark. No matter what I do, no matter what I take (as prescribed, no more, no less), no matter if I’m winning or losing, happy or sad, in therapy or left to my own devices, the swamp can always flood. I’ll be honest, that fight I had in me last year, it came, it was great, but it fizzled. I’d give anything to go back to the well for more, but I don’t even know where the well is. There are a lot of days when I trudge through the question of “why? Why try?”
So… really. Why? Why do I try? Why do I keep going? Do I do it for myself? Do I do it for my nephew? Am I doing it in the laughable hope that my ex-husband will come back? I used to have a drive that came from a conquering resilience. Now, I keep going the way that you repeatedly punch the roof of your coffin with broken knuckles when you’ve been buried alive.
I don’t have a definitive reason “why” at the moment. I just don’t. That’s the truth. What I do have is a collection of reasons “why not.” Yes, my nephew is a reason why not. My sister is a reason why not. My brother-in-law, my mother, my new stepfather and step sister are reasons why not. Making a statement to other alcoholics is a reason why not: if I don’t get to quit, you don’t get to quit. End of discussion.
Experience and knowledge are reasons why not. My fear of the dark beast is so much worse than the actual beast itself. I am constantly nervous that he will show up, he shows up, it’s scary, but then he leaves and things are alright again for the moment. As shekels get added to both dishes of the scale and it looks like it’s beginning to tip toward my damnation, I remember that my reasons “why not” are worth so much more than my reasons to give up.
I don’t know why I’ve been so scared to admit that I’m scared. Humans get scared. Those of us with anxiety disorders tend to stay scared, but we also tend to stay unharmed. I think about the dim beast and there’s so much of him that is powerful and undefinable. He’s invisible, he’s intimidating, he’s tactical, he’s insatiable, he knows exactly what to say to get me riled up and, as far as I know, he is eternal…but then I think about myself and how I have managed to get this far. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but there is something inside me that is powerful and undefinable. My resolve to be my best self for the people I love… it’s invisible and intimidating. It’s tactical and insatiable. The doable fantasy of continuing on in this life gets me all riled up, and as far as I know, it will be eternal.
