(Almost) 1 month sober!

Although I understand it’s one day at a time, I’m looking forward to this Saturday. Already standing on the longest stretch of sobriety (miraculously!) since my relapse last March, but the 7th will mark 1 month. 🙂

Planning to take the day off to celebrate in some way, even if it’s small. Definitely going to try to find a meeting so I can pick up my chip, even if I have to drive the 2 hours to the main big city.

–> PB

History repeats itself

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to fix things. I don’t know why I do the things I do, or how to keep them from happening again.

One of the hardest lessons I’ve learned over the years is that “starting over” is worthless if you can’t keep history from repeating.

And yet, here we are. Here I am. And I’m at a loss. I don’t know what to do. I thought I was the princess of problem-solving….but God, I just don’t fucking know.

–> PB

Run fast, don’t look back

I need a game plan… game plan… game plaaaan…
Never do anything without a game plan. What happened to “crazy not stupid”? Psh, who the fuck am I kidding.

Maybe just throw my shit into the car and leave?
…where am I going? Should I care? Does anyone, really?

Time and distance,
Time and distance,
Time and distance,
Distance, distance, distance,
Run, run, run,
Fast as you can,
Don’t look back,
Don’t look back,
Don’t look back,
Scream, cry,
Scream, cry,
Scream, scream, scream,
Hoarse with rage,
Tell the sky,
It’s not fair,
It’s not fair,
It’s not fair,
No one’s listening,
So run, run, run,
Fast as you can,
Don’t look back,
Because no one’s there.

–> PB

Fight or flight

Okay, I really want to go for a drive just to get the fuck out of here and have some privacy to feel like shit, but to be honest I’m kinda worried that if I were to leave right now, I might not come back. Like, ever.

My fight or flight mode is scary because I’m unpredictable enough to do almost anything…. I mean shit, what the hell’s actually waiting for me? Anywhere?

Maybe I’ll drive to Florida and live on the beach. Then when I get sucked into hurricanes, they’ll be legit hurricanes.

Sluts, Sobriety, and Survival Skills

I’m sitting here checking my blog stats and I find that I actually have a few minutes to spare; so I thought what the hell, I’ll start writing and see what comes…

Uhhhm…

….

I guess I’ll just get out the thing I’ve not wanted to talk about…

I was checking Ryan’s Facebook every couple days or so, despite my constant attempts to control myself. Last time I looked, I saw that the prediction I’d made several weeks ago came true. And so did my reaction that followed. (This all happened like 2 days ago, I think. I’m terrible telling time anymore…)

Ryan changed his FB profile picture for the second time since splitting, and sure enough he did it to hurt me. Or she did. It was a picture of B-Skank and him kissing. Up til then, I’d never had the oh-so-fortunate opportunity to visually see with my own eyes my husband kissing another girl. Not woman. Girl. slut. Yep, better. And man, for a moment there, I thought I was going to be okay. Until I wasn’t. My typical Ryan-reaction kicked in after a few seconds. I suddenly felt like I’d been punched in the stomach. I couldn’t breathe. I felt like I was going to throw up. And, I’m ashamed to admit this, but I felt a twinge of arousal. EVERY TIME, OMG, IT SUUUUUCKS. Like can you imagine? Every time THAT happens, I feel even more disgusted. I feel like my body is betraying me. *shudders* Fucking DISGUSTING.

Anyways, it was already a tough day. I’d made the decision at noon that same day to finally make my high my final one. Hopefully. So, yeah. Then at like 10 or 11 pm is when this happened, not even 12 hours sober.

I didn’t even really want to smoke at that point. I wanted to die. (Not literally suicidal, but it was bad.) I tried to hold everything in, but my seams split open and everything inside poured all over the floor. I blared my headphones and buried my face under two pillows, tried so, so hard to fight the tears pushing through. But of course, that never works. My brain screamed so loud I thought I’d go deaf. I wanted to scream, cry, break things, then get even angrier at myself for letting him make me feel this way. I had to get out. I had to get some air. I couldn’t breathe. I had to get out.

When I couldn’t take it anymore, I changed my clothes and grabbed my things as quietly as I could so as not to wake my parents or Lisi, my mom’s friend and fellow entrepenuer working this show, who was sleeping in the bunk above me. Once outside, tears furiously flooded my face, cheeks so hot I was steaming up my glasses.

Long-story-short, it took two hours and 120 miles to calm me down and tire me enough for at least a couple hours sleep.

…So that happened. I’m handling things infinately better in comparison, but things are still really rough. Before that, I’d already been really depressed over my life circumstances, mainly my drug use, which is why I gave sobriety another fair shot. And it worked. I’m still sober. According to the tracker app on my phone, 4 days; 101 hours; 6115 minutes. I like that it gives all the hour-by-hour, minute-by-minute stats too. 4 days doesn’t seem long at all, despite the fact that I’d not even been able to go 24 hours before. But when I see that that’s 101 hours sober… I think, Wow. I was basically smoking pot as a cigarette smoker would smoke. Every 2 hours minimum, maybe less, and I’d need to go out. My dad was getting irritated at me because I was smoking through all his weed and it wouldn’t even last half the time it’s supposed to if I kept at it. I have no sense of time or quantity of bud, but I’d estimate I was burning through at least a dime-bag a day. If I had all day, like when I spent the day in the city, I easily burned an eighth without blinking. In a day. That’s almost an ounce a week. Now fucking tell me I’m not addicted to marijuana. NO ONE takes my addiction seriously. Sure, when I was putting away half a litre of vodka a day, THAT was a problem because I go absolutely berserk when I drink. I’m a crazy drunk. I’m like a borderline driving a Lambo without speed limits or seat belts. Marijuana became my drug of choice because it was finally a drug that I could do all I wanted and no one would care because it made me calm, happier (falsely), and stupid. My husband loved when I smoked because I was easier to deal with. So there it went. But I hope I don’t need to tell you that every addiction is the same and they all have severe consequences. Probably the worst was that my lungs were in such bad shape that I could barely breathe without coughing and spitting up black tar. (Still am. My dad said it will go on for weeks.)

TELL ME AGAIN HOW PEOPLE CAN’T GET ADDICTED TO POT.  FUCK! I hate people. Addiction. is. a. mental. illness. It does not care what you really want. It does not care if it “helps” you in any way. And it certainly does not care what fucking substance it is.

An addict is an addict.

Sigh… So… that’s been what’s been up lately. And I’m fighting my addiction every fucking second. With no help or understanding from my family. Shit, my dad even fucking lights up right outside the trailer door with the door and windows open. That pissed me off. I lost it and left for a couple hours.

My car’s been my only escape, but there’s never an escape from your feelings. I’ve been surviving the distress tolerance, but fuck if I can’t go back and actually deal with them. The same reaction happens all over again. For right now, I push images of him and her out of my head, along with the images of me smoking pot with my dad and feeling that connection.

I’ve been angry, super-temperamental, and irritable. But I’m dealing. Right now, I’m dealing. I wish they had AA meetings around here. I can’t believe they only have about a half dozen in about a 60-mile radius, I shit you not. And so far, the one I’ve tried to go to was of course not there. I know almost everyone here drinks and smokes pot…. I guess no one else wants to be sober….

How the fuck am I going to survive this?