Do You Understand I Deserve the Best?

I may never visit another zoo or aquarium now that I know what it feels like to be a living being on display.  It was my prerogative to splay my parts on a cold, metal table for people to observe and autopsy, but that does not soothe the burns of leering eyes.  I was hoping to act as an educational, anatomical model of a recovering addict to show others that it could be done.  In my fantasy, there is a medical examiner standing over me with a British accent and a laser pointer saying, “now class, if you look closely, you’ll see that her liver has turned to sawdust, but her heart muscle has swollen to five times its original size.  Quite fascinating, isn’t it?”

                I’m not a unique case just because of my duct tape and chewed gum hepatic system, but also because I had to come up with my own plan of attack when traditional methods for addiction recovery failed me.  Or, I failed them, depending on how you look at it.  That’s my life now.  A story that constantly changes, depending on how people look at it.  I’ve been accused of making a selfish grasp at controlling the narrative; that’s a fruitless accusation for two reasons.  One:  its not selfish if it’s my fucking narrative.  Two: I lost control of that plotline a loonnngggg time ago.  Now, I just tell the dusty, dirty, sticky truth and people can glean what they like from it.  Its not particularly flattering to me, but I lost control of that train a long time ago too. 

                In my journey so far, I have found that people are actually a lot more supportive and forgiving than I would have given them credit for.  99% of the commentary I receive is made up of encouragement, empathy, understanding, and positive curiosity.  The other 1%, of course, is blatant hate and criticism.  Completely understandable.  In fact, I’m often more welcoming to a loathsome dialogue than an accommodating one, because I find it more productive for my purposes.  I am an addict and I am the daughter of an addict.  I’ve been both the point of detonation and the collateral damage--   that’s the reason that it’s so important to me to bridge the gap between the two parties.  Just because I want to bring attention to the complex struggle of an addict does not mean that the ones who are hurt by the addicts become cannon fodder… everyone was taken hostage.  Everyone was traumatized.  Everyone needs to heal. 

                I appreciate the supporters, I appreciate the dissenters, I appreciate the curious onlookers, but I do not appreciate the rubberneckers.  And those guys are quite abundant.  You know exactly who I am talking about too—the people who slow down while driving past a terrible car accident.  They aren’t checking to see if everyone is alive, they aren’t saying prayers or sending good vibes.  They are hoping to see the carnage.  They are looking for blood.  They are whispering to one another, “did you hear that she had to take a semester off of school to go to rehab?  Have you seen that sad little blog she writes to defend herself?  Her husband flat-out left her.  Apparently, she’s a complete fucking monster.  I always knew she had issues, but I didn’t know she was such a drunk…”

                How can I possibly be accused of trying to control the narrative?  That is the narrative.  Every unbecoming word is true.  I had to take a semester off of school to go to rehab.  Twice.  I went once, immediately started drinking again, went a second time, drank after that too.  My husband left me because I am a drunk monster with a myriad of other issues, and I detail them all in my sad little blog.  Facts.

                The thing is, though… if I don’t even have control over my narrative, then no ones else gets to take control either.  Especially not the people who only pop-by occasionally to tap on the glass and scrutinize me from any of the 360 degrees of visibility I’ve freely given.  I go to bed with myself every night.  I wake up with myself every morning.  No one knows me better than I know myself.  At my worst, I was intolerable.  But at my best, I’m pretty fucking spectacular.  The latter is permanent, the former was temporary.  If I can’t control the narrative, then I certainly can’t control people’s perceptions.  This has left me with a big decision to make.

                Despite significant setbacks, life goes on.  There are people that now exist only in my past.  Some of them got apologies, some did not. Some I let go of easily, some I fought like Hell to keep.  If you don’t think this world is a cruel, tragic place, then you’ve never had to show your affection for the one you love the most by simply stepping out of their way so they can get past you. 

                That is not a gesture I will be showing twice.

                For starters, I will never again put myself or another person in that position: not by drinking, not by neglecting my mental health, not by being careless, not due to any circumstance that I can maintain or control.  That’s a promise.  A promise I can only keep with constant vigilance and hard work. 

                I already know that I have people in my life who are worth staying sober and healthy for.  They are the people who know that no matter how hard I try, I will always have some issues and they have decided to stick by me anyway.  So, the big decision I have to make is this:  what, or who, am I willing to let into my life going forward?

                While I’m not thrilled about the route I took to get to this point, I can say that, for the first time in my entire life… I like myself.  Don’t get me wrong, a witch doctor with a GPS couldn’t get me from where I am to perfection, but I have pride in myself regardless.  I know what’s important to me in this life.  I have an unshakably loyal family who kept pushing me and pushing me, even when I thought that I was a goner.  In my moments of doubt, I think about the kind of sister/daughter/aunt that they deserve, and I rush to meet that goal.  I know what true, lasting friendship is.   I have allies that put the entirety of their faith in me, and I will never risk losing it again.  Fear dragged me down to rock bottom, strength, willingness, and perseverance pulled me back up again—to a higher plane than from which I fell.  My point is that rock bottom was not the climax of this narrative of mine that everybody wants to put their spin on.

                Up until recently—and I mean very recently—like a week ago, I joked that I was a “bargain item.”   You know, like a piece of furniture in that sad corner of IKEA near the registers.  Other than a small scratch, there is nothing wrong with my form or function.  I’m ambitious, I’m educated (getting more educated actively), I’m clever, I’m kind, I’m charming when I want to be, I’m obnoxiously honest, and I have nothing but time, love, and effort to give away enthusiastically.  You could buy me at discounted rate, cheat my damaged side to the wall, and nobody would know that I came from the reject pile.

                That joke isn’t funny, though.  I am finally at a place in my life where I see a future, despite all that I have lost.  A better future.  One where I always put my best foot forward.  With all of this new found self-love came a naïve optimism, and I nearly forgot that some people would automatically and always see me as “damaged goods,” without a stupid joke about it coming from my own two lips.

                I hate that addiction happened to me, but I can say assuredly that I am better for it.  It may seem untoward to bounce back from my lowest point with exceptionally high expectations for others, but I didn’t bounce back from my lowest point to settle for mediocrity.  Frankly, if I had respect for myself all along, I never would have been an addict.  I drank to get rid of the bad feelings that other people made me feel about myself.   I can’t lose myself like that again.  There’s good stuff here now and I don’t want to risk it.

                The narrative of my addiction may have started out shitty, but it has definite potential for a happy ending.  Every time I think someone is whispering behind my back, or I lay awake at night wondering why a boy doesn’t like me, my character arc starts to flatten out.  I may have put myself in the display case, but it was so people could learn, not so they could exploit my weaknesses.  Especially when I have so many newfound strengths to mine.  After the year I’ve had, I’m exhausted in a lot of ways.  When it comes to helping, giving, and loving, I have nothing but surplus and energy.  I mean, I’m still me, so I’ll do the loving with cuss words, dark humor, and playful anarchy, but that’s still love.  That may be my side of the story, but I’m sticking to it.