Tag: Addiction

Giving Up Alcohol

Giving Up Alcohol

“Now for seventeen years I’ve been throwing them back
Seventeen more will bury me
Can somebody please just tie me down
Or somebody give me a goddamn drink”
-Nathaniel Rateliff & the Night Sweats

“Alcohol can trigger episodes,” the nurse practitioner said. “You need to avoid it.”

As she says it, all I can think of is that half empty 1.5 liter bottle of Pinor Noir sitting on my kitchen counter.

“Okay,” I think. “I’ll finish that first. THEN I’ll give up alcohol.”

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I guess.

But how long do I need to give it up for? I know I should probably give it up forever, but Christ. I haven’t even been to Ireland yet. How am I going to visit Ireland and NOT order a Guinness? How am I going to visit Ireland without making a stop at the Jameson distillery? How am I going to visit Ireland and not get jubilantly faced in honor of my Irish ancestors?

Fuck.

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The last time I tried giving up alcohol I fell into a deep depression, which forced me to seek mental help three years ago.

It’s hard for me to acknowledge, but alcohol is a big part of my life. I often wish a pharmaceutical company would create a depression medication that would make me feel like I do after a few beers or a couple glasses of wine. I feel so much more relaxed and inclined to have fun. The best part is that I love everyone. When I’m drinking, I feel more spiritually connected to every human being. I see people who might typically annoy me in a new light. Just another one of God’s children. Imperfect and beautifully made. Like me.

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I met with the nurse practitioner last Monday. I finished the bottle of wine last Wednesday. Greg and I were watching Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy and I was giggling at Sam Rockwell channeling his best George W. Bush impression as Zaphod Beeblebrox, former President of the Galaxy. For a moment I thought, “Man, I miss Dubya. He was awful, but so damn funny.” I nostalgically recalled all of those State of the Union addresses I drank through during the aughts. Take a sip when he mispronounces nuclear. Take a sip when he says terrorism. Take a sip when he mentions homeland security. Take a sip when he says weapons of mass destruction. Finish your drink when one side of the room gives him a standing ovation.

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Later that evening I tried telling Greg a story about something funny I saw online and couldn’t properly explain it.

“Are you drunk?’ he asked.

“I don’t know.” I put my nearly full third glass down. I felt embarrassed. It kind of snuck up on me, like it always does.

I just wanted to finish the wine and not waste the money I spent on it. I just wanted to feel good.

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Alcohol is such a large part of the mostly Irish and Italian American Catholic culture I grew up in and live in. My parents weren’t big drinkers (my Dad gave up drinking years ago) but Mum sometimes had a glass or two of beer in the evenings. My Italian American friends grew up with wine at the supper table and were allowed to drink long before they turned 21. I can’t help but smile ironically when Christian friends tell me they avoid alcohol because of their faith. In the house I grew up in, we always kept a bottle of scotch on hand for one of the priests in our family who would often visit us for Sunday dinner. Mum also knew that some Catholic nuns, like the ones who taught her in school, drank too.

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Nearly everyone drinks. It’s just a part of life in the Boston area. It seems like something is always being celebrated, and there is always a reason to say “Slainte,” clink glasses, and imbibe. Even if it’s for something silly.  My friends and I once got smashed during a get together we deemed “A Very Good Friday.” Instead of avoiding meat and reflecting on Jesus’ sacrifice with reverence, we decided to eat Easter-themed goodies, drink, and celebrate!

Even though it made me forget sometimes, alcohol gave me some of my greatest memories.

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I ended up pouring that third glass of wine down the sink. I winced as I did it, but knew I was already too drunk for a Wednesday.

Last Friday I thought to myself, “Man, I haven’t had a drink in a while! Check me out. Maybe I should have some hot chocolate and peppermint schnapps tonight to celebrate! I mean, it’s Friday, right?”

Then I realized I had only been sober for one full day.

Not drinking means I can’t celebrate like I normally do. I have to watch everyone around me get tipsy and happy while I feel jealous and annoyed with my drunk, sometimes loud friends.

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Do I need AA? I’m not a real alcoholic. Am I? I’m functional. I don’t have a DUI. I have a job.

Avoid alcohol, stressors, and get enough sleep. Not doing these things can trigger an episode. Not doing these things can affect your life in a big way.

If I had my way, I would celebrate giving up drinking by drinking.

This is going to be rough.

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Depression: The Giving Up Disease

Depression: The Giving Up Disease

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8/21/2015.

Greg is concerned. I’ve been more depressed than I have ever been, according to him.

He says I have been slowly giving up everything, and he’s right.

I struggle with depression, The Giving Up Disease.

I’ve given up trying to find a therapist and someone who can prescribe psychiatric medication. Calling places and learning that they either don’t prescribe meds, have an 8 month wait, don’t take new patients, or don’t take my insurance has been incredibly discouraging and has only made me more depressed.

I’ve given up working out. No motivation.

I’ve given up caring about what I eat and have gained weight due to this.

I’ve given up staying in touch with many people.

I’ve given up being outside as much as I used to be outside. I used to try to get outside every day (at least on my lunch break) to walk. Now I don’t.

I’ve given up on doing household chores. I only do the dishes and laundry now because they’re necessary. I despise doing both.

I’ve given up showering daily. I shower every other day now. I have also started to despise showering.

I’ve given up wearing makeup, drying my hair, and trying to look halfway decent.

I’ve given up cooking and learning to cook healthy meals.

I’ve given up on having a relationship with my brother Paul.

I’ve been tempted to give up my relationship with my husband Greg, because I don’t want to drag him down with me.

I’ve been tempted to give up my job.

I’ve been tempted to give up the medication that keeps me somewhat sane because it makes me “fat” and  is “not working anyway.”

I’ve been tempted to give up on friends who frustrate me with their hypocrisy and narcissism, but don’t want to tear the social fabric I’m comfortable in.

I’ve been tempted to give up on God. I’ve been angry with Him and wonder why he cursed me with chronic depression and what the fucking point of it is.

I’ve been tempted to give up writing.

I’ve given up most things I used to like to do.

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I would have given up on my dreams too, but I don’t know if I have dreams anymore. I don’t even know what I like anymore. I remember that dream about becoming an actress, and tell myself I’m too old and beat-up looking to pursue that now. Then that one about becoming a travel writer. How will I ever afford that? Then that book I wanted to write. No one will want to read it.

Depression is The Giving Up Disease. It makes you slowly give up everything until there is nothing left to give up but your life.

Then, sometimes, you give up your life.

I don’t want it to reach that point.

If I’m to be honest, the reason my depression has increased lately is that I am still suffering from a broken heart.

My brother Paul broke my heart back in April. I deserved it. I said terrible things to him, hoping he would change. But instead he told me that I was in no place to judge him and to “have a nice life.”

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I’m 32 and I’ve never had my heart broken before.

That may seem odd, but I’ve always possessed a defense mechanism that caused me to abandon people before they abandoned me.

And maybe that’s what I was trying to do when I sent that awful message to my brother. I sensed for a long time that we were becoming distant. And I told him I couldn’t have a relationship with him unless he changed. Perhaps that was my defense mechanism cropping up.

Because I knew that, eventually, he would abandon me.

I said things that were slowly boiling inside of me for the past eight years. He consistently pissed me off with his actions, but I never said anything because I always want to keep the peace.

The water boiled and overflowed onto the stove when his actions made my mother upset. I hate seeing my mother upset. Mum wouldn’t say anything to him about why she was upset, because she wanted to see her grandchildren.

I said horrible things. I could have approached it differently. I recognize that now.

Sometimes depression makes you view people in the worst light, and it ends up affecting your relationships.  You focus on someone’s bad qualities or past wrongdoings almost obsessively until you start resenting them and wishing they were out of your life. Then you might end your relationship with them or drive them away.

I miss my nephew and niece. I miss my brother.

But I don’t know what to do. I figure any communication I attempt would just piss Paul off. I don’t want to piss him off or cause him any unhappiness. I truly want him to be happy.

I keep asking God what to do and haven’t received an answer. All I’ve received are two separate dreams where I reconciled with Paul. Both times I woke up so relieved and happy until I realized it wasn’t true.

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I recently finished Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. It was a wonderful and insightful memoir. It begins with Gilbert going through a terrible divorce. After her divorce, she travels to Italy, India and Indonesia to explore the pursuits of pleasure, devotion and balance.

While in India, Gilbert receives “Instructions for Freedom” from a friend at an ashram where she is practicing meditation. Going through the instructions on the roof of the ashram, Gilbert is able to invite her ex-husband, whom she knows she will never see again, into prayer/meditation with her so she can attempt to find closure.

The Instructions for Freedom are as follows:

  1. Life’s metaphors are God’s instructions.
  2. You have just climbed up and above the roof. There is nothing between you and the Infinite. Now, let go.
  3. The day is ending. It’s time for something that was beautiful to turn into something else that is beautiful. Now, let go.
  4. Your wish for resolution was a prayer. You being here is God’s response. Let go, and watch the stars come out–on the outside and on the inside.
  5. With all your heart, ask for grace, and let go.
  6. With all your heart, forgive him, FORGIVE YOURSELF, and let him go.
  7. Let your intention be freedom from useless suffering. Then, let go.
  8. Watch the heat of day pass into the cool night. Let go.
  9. When the karma of a relationship is done, only love remains. It’s safe. Let go.
  10. When the past has passed from you at last, let go. Then climb down and begin the rest of your life. With great joy.

I had to stop the book right there because I was crying my eyes out.

It made me think of Paul.

Recently I invited (or tried to invite) Paul into prayer with me so I could tell him I love him and I forgive him. And to ask him to forgive me.

I can’t forgive myself.

I told Greg that if I die, I want Paul to know that I am deeply sorry and that I will always love him.

What I wish I could say to Paul:

I am so sorry I acted hurtful toward you. You deserved better than that. My anger had more to do with me than with you. I haven’t resolved certain things within myself and it has made me an unhappy person who is capable of hurting others. I didn’t mean to drive you away. It was a defense mechanism because I thought you were abandoning me already.

I am working on becoming a better, happier person. And when that happens, I would be honored if you would consider allowing me back into your life.

But for now, I know I have work to do. Maybe that is why God hasn’t really answered me yet on how I should try to reestablish a relationship with you.

I love you. Always.

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~

Greg says I can’t give up. I’m reading Elizabeth Warren’s book A Fighting Chance right now. He says Elizabeth Warren wouldn’t give up, and neither should I.

I don’t want to reach the point where I give up my life.

So I keep repeating to myself:

Don’t give up.
Don’t give up.
Don’t give up.

And when I don’t know how to pray about what’s going on, I don’t have the right words, I just say:

Lord, Lord.

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The Giving Up Disease is powerful.  It’s so powerful that I don’t even like talking about the future, because I’m not sure if I really have a future. That makes it hard to be motivated and to dream.

9/26/2015.

I haven’t given up yet.

This week I called about 30 places to try to get appointments for therapy and medication.

I’ve heard back from about three places who may be able to provide what I need without having a ridiculous wait time.

Of course, I looked up online reviews for these three places and they are horrible. One place recently had a complaint filed with the Better Business Bureau. Wonderful. I’m going there on Monday, because a Nurse Practitioner who can prescribe meds had an opening. There is a 2-3 month wait for a therapy appointment with this place.

Even though I told all 30 places I’ve been having suicidal thoughts when I left voice mails for them (a slightly white lie I’ve been telling to get their attention because it’s become necessary), I’ve only heard back from a third. And only about a third of that third have said they could help me in a timely fashion. Mostly, they recommend that I visit the ER or try a place other than them.

“Have you contacted this place?” Yes, I have. That place and about 30 other places in this area.

“Have you tried going to the ER?” No, I can’t afford it.

“Have you tried going through your PCP?” Yes, I have. He wants me to get in with someone who specializes in psych meds.

“Have you tried this intensive outpatient program?” No, I can’t afford it and I work during the day.

“Have you tried this crisis hotline?” No, I’m beyond that point. They can’t help me schedule an appointment.

You start to feel like it’s your fault for not “trying” hard enough.

I am busting my ass trying to get in with someone who can provide the services I need, and I keep getting to the point where I want to scream at whomever asks if I’ve tried this or that. Like I’m new to this process and haven’t been in and out of therapy for the past 16 years.

I haven’t given up yet. But the odds are stacked against me. I stand with so many other mentally ill people who resort to drugs and drinking because the system is so overloaded and broken.

I understand why they live this way. And why they die this way.

The help they need simply isn’t there when they need it the most. They get discouraged.

And understandably, they give up.

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July 4th Revelers: Label Your Alcohol for Friends in Recovery

July 4th Revelers: Label Your Alcohol for Friends in Recovery

First of all, Happy 4th of July, everyone!

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I just wanted to provide a friendly reminder for your July 4th festivities: be sure to label all of the alcoholic items you provide at your party for your friends in recovery.

It can be easy to mistake booze for non-alcoholic beverages, and innocent-looking dessert items as alcohol-free. The reason I’m providing this reminder is because I have a brother who is in recovery. Last year, we went to a family party and there was a large beverage dispenser full of sangria. Because it wasn’t labeled, he initially mistook it for fruit punch and poured himself a cup.

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He was in recovery for about three years at that point. And thank God he took a whiff of the drink before taking a sip, or else he would have risked relapsing. After smelling it, he asked me to taste it and tell me what it was. It was definitely sangria. I just about died thinking about how something so ordinary could automatically reverse the three years of progress in recovery. My brother works so hard to stay sober, and I felt a bit miffed at the party hosts, who knew my brother was in recovery but didn’t bother to tell him that the fruit punch-looking drink was sangria.

My brother wasn’t the only one who mistook the sangria for fruit punch. My 7-year-old nephew also tried pouring himself a cup of what he thought was fruit punch. We had to redirect him to the Hawaiian Punch in the cooler that was set aside for the kids at the party.

There are other things you need to watch out for. Not Your Father’s Root Beer is a popular drink right now. It’s alcoholic, but doesn’t really taste like it has alcohol in it.

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Be sure to label this as well. A person in recovery could easily mistake this for ordinary root beer.

Also be sure to label any desserts made with alcohol. While it is true that some of the alcohol is baked out, there are other desserts that have alcohol in their frosting, which is not baked out. Italian Rum Cake is a perfect example.

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It just seems like ordinary cake, and you wouldn’t know it had alcohol in it until you took a bite.

Please be sure to label all of your alcoholic items with a “Contains Alcohol” sign for your friends in recovery and people who haven’t reached the legal age to consume alcohol.

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And please have a happy and safe 4th of July, everyone!

Alewife Station, 5:30 p.m.

Alewife Station, 5:30 p.m.

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Danny McCormick looked down at the bloodstained tracks at Alewife Station. The police cleaned up as much as they could. You couldn’t tell anything happened there unless you really looked, unless you remembered where you left her.

Danny remembered. He remembered the awful, deafening screech of the train’s brakes. He remembered the screams. He remembered running down the stairs.

He used what was left on his Charlie Card to walk her to the track. To make sure she was all right. Then he left her there.

He left her there.

The last thing she said was, “I’m gonna make things right.” There was a certainty in her overflowing blue eyes, shining with the reflection of the subway station’s lights.

Andrea was making strides in her recovery. At the 4:00 meeting she received a coin commemorating her 60 days of sobriety.

“It’s been the hahdest thing I ever done, but I’ll do anything to get Sydney back,” she paused, wiping tears away.

Whenever a woman at the meeting didn’t have a ride, Danny walked her to the T to make sure she got there safely. There was safety in numbers at the T station. Even though Danny hated crowds, he knew people were safer in one.

Danny touched Andrea’s shoulder. “Yahalready makin’ things right. I’ll see ya at the Tuesday meetin’. You have my numbah, right?”

She nodded. “Thanks Danny.”

No… that was the last thing she said.

Thanks Danny.

As he stared at the tracks, his eyes welled up with tears. He eyed the red “Danger – Third Rail” sign posted above them. He clenched his teeth.

Was that the last thing she said?

“No problem. Take ceah,” Danny said, turning around to leave the station. He almost forgot that it was rush hour. He knew the station would get busy when the next train came, unloading thousands of commuters getting off from work in Boston. Danny wanted to beat the crowds out of the station.

As he reached the top of the stairs the thunder of the arriving train filled the station. This was a sound Danny was so familiar with. He was also accustomed to the soft screech of the train’s brakes. Loud sounds made him nervous, but the sounds of the T became everyday sounds that fell into the background of his life.

But then the screech grew louder and didn’t stop. Danny immediately clenched his teeth because of the sound. Then he heard the screams.

He turned and ran back down the stairs. He couldn’t see her. He saw mothers covering their children’s eyes. He saw old men pointing down at the rails. Then the wide-eyed college students, speechless, covering their mouths in shock.

“Call 911! There’s a woman under the train!” A young man in a suit dialed frantically on his iPhone.

No.

No.

No.

He left her there.

Thanks Danny.