Yes, I'm posting this in the middle of the night on a weekend in hopes of burying it.
And this isn't an inspiration post or a motivational post. It's a true life post. So hold onto your hats, boys and girls.
And when you read this, please don't freak out. I PROMISE...I'm all good. I'm all back to ME.
By the time you read this, it will be September. Which means Dry August is over. Which, by my own rules, means I can drink again. My friends are calling this new month "Sloppy September." Let's take a step back.
July was a rough month for me. I ran into some heartache that I wasn't expecting. And I chose to numb it with alcohol. A lot of alcohol. Every night for three weeks, I drank. And on the weekends, I drank more. I was sad. I was heartbroken. I was lost. And I was headed in a direction that was unfamiliar and dark and scary. And I was worried about myself.
So I decided to stop. I decided to take some time off from drinking...prove to myself that there wasn't and isn't a problem.
I won't lie...the first week or so was hard. I have a glass of wine each night while I write. I thoroughly enjoy that habit. And it was hard to train my mind that I didn't want or need that wine to enjoy writing to you. Within the first two weeks, I did have three sips of drinks...new drinks that I hadn't tried before, and far be it from me to be rude and not try a new drink. Some called that cheating. I didn't consider it cheating. Not sure why, but I didn't.
I was holding my own...not finishing off the open bottle of red wine on the counter. Not finishing off the open bottle of Skinny Girl Margarita in the fridge. I was successful. Until I went to Portland. I ended up having two and a half drinks that weekend (I could go with the "it was a new drink" excuse again, because it was, but I had drinks in front of me, so that won't fly). So 2.5 drinks in a social setting. Yes, I failed. But that didn't bother me too terribly much for some reason.
From that point on, I started a cleanse, I was eating properly, I was still not drinking, I was feeling great...until last Sunday. That mess up, that fail...that is the one that haunts me. Last Sunday, stuff got a bit crazy around these parts and my heart and head went to the dark side. And my mind tormented me, asking for a glass of wine, telling me that it would calm the anxiety...the anxiety that I hasn't felt in a month. Wine was all I needed. I said no, eat. Have some dinner, a huge glass of water...FIGHT. And then I lost. I failed. I poured myself a glass of wine. And I cried.
The difference between these two fails...yes, I had 2.5 drinks two weekends before, but it was in a social setting. And I nursed all of them. And I was in control. Last weekend...I didn't have control. And I succumbed to my mind's craziness. And I failed.
I went to brain therapy last week. My therapist asked about Dry August and I told her about my angst over failing. She said that she sees my concern...drinking to cope vs. drinking while socializing. But she told me that I should be proud of myself for taking the self-imposed challenge. And that I did prove to myself that I don't NEED a glass of wine every night. And that yes, last weekend was a set back, it wasn't the end. She thinks I should accept that I accomplished my goal, and that I should be proud.
I love my therapist. She is amazing. I'm working on accepting the fact that I was able to say no most nights...when things were heavy, when the world was dark...I said no. I'm working on it. But I still think I could have, and should have, done better.
Thanks for listening friends. You're awesome and I appreciate you!