by Band Back Together | Nov 21, 2010 | Addiction, Addiction Recovery, Bipolar Disorder, Substance Abuse, Suicide |
I have been a survivor of Bipolar Disorder for over twenty years. I call myself a survivor because there have been many times that I allowed this disease to come close to killing me.
In hindsight, it was always there, slowly building, until it turned me into a self-medicating, selfish, wallowing hot mess. It wasn’t until I was in my early 20′s that I was ready to admit that something was seriously wrong. Even though I spent a year institutionalized as a teen (I call it my Girl, Interrupted phase) and told I was very sick, I kept my head in the sand about it for a long time.
When the suicide attempts and month-long meltdowns started coming more frequently, I had to admit that I needed help.
I have tried so many medications, I can’t even name them all. In fact, much of 2008 is a blur because I was so medicated.
What actually saved me was getting sober and realizing that I was not so much addicted to alcohol and drugs. Instead, I was addicted to myself and my disease. I am Bipolar II, which means that manic episodes are not as frequent, but they do happen and let me tell you, there isn’t a high that can make you feel so good. And for free. Hell, sign me up!
I know now that I had learned how to prolong the episodes by forcing myself to stay awake for days on end, drinking, not eating..you name it. It took a lot to admit to myself that if only I had realized this a long time ago, I may not have lost jobs, relationships and other material things.
Where would I be now? is something I had to stop asking because the guilt would eat me alive.
I am happy now; in love, and sober. It isn’t always easy, but I am learning to protect me from myself. It’s working and that is the best I can do.
by Band Back Together | Nov 17, 2010 | Addiction, Addiction Recovery, Adult Children of Addicts, Emotional Abuse, Family, Psychological Manipulation |
I find it hilarious when someone has a perception of me varies wildly from who I actually am. Sometimes, it makes me want to correct the misconception, yet other times it tickles me sparkly to let them think what they want.
Life is absolutely filled with more humor that way.
When I got pregnant with my first son, I had a role in my family: The Fuck-Up. Disregarding all of the surrounding circumstances (my mother’s relapse slash hatred of me), the blame for all of my actions fell squarely on my shoulders, at least as far as my family was concerned. Although many of my actions were not *ahem* the most mature, my family gave me far less credit than I deserved, especially considering that I was 20.
When my pregnancy was announced, my parents were shockingly supportive of me. Well, at least until I found out much later, of course, that they had asked my brother – who is 10 years my senior – and his future wife if they would adopt my child in the event that I “freaked out.” They had such a low opinion of me that they honestly believed that I wouldn’t assume responsibility for my child.
(note: I am amazed that the keyboard has not ignited with the fury of a thousand suns as I type this).
The rest of my family (save for me, of course. I get a special CHARGE when I get to confront people who have pissed me off.) is so non-confrontational that one might assume that each member is far meeker than they really are, I rarely heard about what a Fuck-Up I was considered to be. Aside from snide comments here and there about “responsibility,” everyone was pretty mum.
It was only when I met, and subsequently married The Daver, that I realized just how poor my family’s opinion of me truly was. You would have thought, by their reactions, that Dave had rescued me from the streets, where I was selling crack and dancing (badly) for spare change.
Somehow he had turned my life around for me. You would never have guessed that I was already at the top of my nursing school class, TA’ing for Organic/BioChem AND tutoring for A & P, while working as a waitress and bartender 20 hours a week BEFORE Dave walked into my life.
My brother, who I have a long and sorted history with, decided that if Dave (whom he adored/s) liked me, then I couldn’t be all THAT bad. My parents finally accepted that I had become a more mature and responsible person, although their time line was off by a factor of about a year and a half. In their minds, I only began to turn my life around once I had met Dave.
I do, of course, appreciate that my family loves him as one of their own. I know that I’ll be left out in the cold the moment Daver and I split up, as both of our families prefer him, but I just wish that they could see that as wonderful as Dave is, he did nothing to change who I am and what I will do with my life.
It dawned on me, as I prepared my home for hosting Thanksgiving this year, that if asked, my family would probably mention that they were “having dinner at Becky’s house” and something to the effect of “she’s really turned her life around, hasn’t she?”
Like I was some sort of street urchin in a Lifetime Original Movie who had some sappy predictable plot line: unmarried, younger girl gives birth to a child out of wedlock, heads down the “wrong path” until she meets “the man of her dreams,” and she miraculously changes her path, learns to cook and clean, and becomes a responsible upstanding citizen with an immaculate home.
Who can -and does- now crochet motherfucking platitudes to hang on the wall.
Yeah, motherfucking right.
I can’t do anything about this, of course. It’d probably be easier to train my cats to unload the dishwasher or teach the coffeemaker to speak Ebonics than it would be to get my family to change their opinion of me.
It just sucks that they have to be so off-base with their perceptions, I mean, why can’t I be mistaken for a Fighter Pilot rather than a Fuck-Up
Or, I suppose, more accurately: The Becky Formerly Known As Fuck-Up?
by Band Back Together | Oct 23, 2010 | Addiction, Addiction Recovery, Alcohol Addiction |
Playing Scrabble”
“What kind of word is that, DOUR? I challenge, you know what it means?
What is that? one of those Jewish words, right – cause you are Jewish, what you call that Judaism? You eat Matzoh Balls? cause when I was little I had a Jewish friend, and we had matzoh balls. How you make those? Maybe you know him – Tenenbaum was his name, you know Tenenbaum? No, then how about another kid – his name was like Borish or Barish, right, that is a Jewish name. How come you do not wear a yamcha? Oh, you are not observant and what about those curly things down the side of their face – what are those guys called?
OK – so DOUR here in the dictionary it says it means formidable, stern or morose, how you pronounce that m-o-r-o-s-e.
Anyway, man, you ever go to the slam first Wednesday of every month at the public library? I did it once – I came in third place. Maybe I’ll see you there sometime.
So you not coming in again this week so I may not see you again cause I’m supposed to be discharged on Friday although today they told me maybe not till Tuesday. How come you’re not coming in – you gotta work to earn the GWOP?
What?
You don’t know what the GWOP is? That’s the money man – you gotta make the GWOP you want to live.
Anyway I’m gonna be sending you a telegram, I told you I was gonna write a poem man but I don’t know yet. I thought about it but once I start it flows. I just need a title, maybe I’ll call it “This, That or the Third Thing” cause you like that – you all about this, that or the third thing, you know what I’m saying?
Nah man that’s not my expression – that’s from the street. The street man – you ain’t never been on the street, that aight man you a good guy and yeah I ain’t gonna use when I get out cause how bad you think I’d feel if after being in rehab, inpatient and all that, I go out and use again.
I mean how bad would I feel…”
by Band Back Together | Oct 19, 2010 | Addiction, Addiction Recovery, Alcohol Addiction, Baby Loss, Coping With Baby Loss, Coping With Depression, Grief, Help For Grief And Grieving, Loss, Major Depressive Disorder |
Three months after my third pregnancy loss, I started drinking.
In my mind, I’d done everything I was, as a faithful Mormon woman, “supposed” to do. I was married in the temple. I attended church regularly. I prayed, read my scriptures, paid my tithing…all the things I was taught would bring me true happiness.
I wasn’t happy.
Every time I heard “multiply and replenish the earth” I started crying. Nothing in my Mormon upbringing had prepared me to give birth to a dead baby. I was supposed to stop taking birth control, get pregnant and then have a baby. End of story. Nobody mentioned the awful things that might happen between point A and point C.
I was angry.
God told me to multiply and replenish the earth and I tried, dammit. What kind of messed up God tells someone to do something and then totally messes with them?
I was disconsolate. I was livid. I was miserable.
I had a plan.
I’d done everything I was “supposed” to do, but it obviously wasn’t working for me. Now I would do whatever I wanted, because really, it couldn’t possibly get worse.
So I went to a bar. I chose it carefully, because I had no idea what I’d be like or what might happen. I just knew there was the potential to feel better. I went to a bar where I knew the bouncer–we’d been on a few dates before I got married–and I felt like I could trust him to kind of watch over me.
Darin, if you ever read this…thank you. For more than I’m willing to discuss on a public forum.
I don’t remember what that first drink felt like, but it must’ve been decent, because it wasn’t my last.
I learned to drink.
I learned which drinks packed the most bang for my buck. I learned which ones made me gag but were totally worth it because once they were down they made me feel warm and fuzzy and like everything was okay in the world.
I didn’t drink every night, or even every weekend. Most of the time I was achingly sober, which gave drinking an allure that seemed not only difficult but pointless to resist. Why would I not do something that brought me a moment of respite?
I’ve had a lot of trite phrases thrown my way during this whole journey, and this is the one that always makes me laugh: “It’s not true happiness. When the glow wears off, you’ll be even more miserable.”
Bullshit.
At that point there was no such thing as more miserable, and if I could get 30…60…120 minutes where I didn’t think, I’d take it. Anyone who throws that phrase around has no idea what true depression feels like, and I’m happy for them. I’d prefer nobody feel that way.
So I drank. And I distanced myself from my husband, my family, my church. I still participated in all the things I had before, but it seemed empty. That was the one problem with alcohol–it wore off, and I certainly couldn’t spend every waking moment drunk. After all, that’s what alcoholics do, and I certainly wasn’t an alcoholic.
I couldn’t admit that I was drowning. I had to be strong, because that’s what you do when horrible things happen. You pull on your big girl panties and press forward. You don’t say that all your dreams and hopes for the future vanished overnight and now you feel like there’s nothing to live for.
That might make other people sad, and I was sad enough for everyone.
Luckily, I found a solution. I didn’t have to drink all the time, because there was something even better! It was cheaper, more accessible and, best of all, every bit as legal as alcohol.
by Band Back Together | Oct 8, 2010 | Addiction, Addiction Recovery, Adult Bullying, Alcohol Addiction, Anger, Blended Families, Bullying, Marriage Problems |
The man I married was a drunk. Hm, he used to be a drunk? Well, what do you call him now? When his then-wife served him divorce papers, not a month after their baby girl was born, he lost it. He fell head first in a vat of beer and really didn’t resurface for quite awhile. He struggles daily to not drink. And let me just say, some days are easier than others, boy howdy.
Before we started dating, I was pretty straight forward. I won’t marry a drunk. I’m a daughter of a drunk, and I won’t live like that. I refuse. I still, slowly, started dating him.
When she got information that we were dating, let me just say, the proverbial shit hit the fan. It went everywhere. She said she was going to move and he’d never see his kid again, she was going to get his rights taken away, and she thought about how to get us to break up. Just for the sheer enjoyment of it, I guess. This woman had put this man onto the streets because of the amount of child support he had to pay. Imagine. Imagine having to live in a camper with no running water and no electricity, just to pay child support.
Right now, I can’t tell you the story about WHY he quit drinking. Not yet that is. I’m sure one day I will be able to, without crying and feeling anger and well, wanting to puke. But let me just say it wasn’t pretty.
Fast forward about six months.
7am: there’s a knock at the door.
In my sleepy haze, I stumbled from our tiny room to the front door, hair stuck straight up, and climbed on the chair so that I could see out the front window. Blue car. Crap, its her car.
THIS EARLY?? Ugh. *heart thumping in throat* For half a second, I considered turning around and going back to bed. Letting him deal with it. But nope, I swung open the door and woah, who is this man?
He asked for my husband. More drama.
This is where we learned that his ex-wife had DIED.
She FREAKING DIED. This …this woman who made our lives a living hell, went and DIED ON ME. What the hell?
This “woman” who had put us through so much had just DIED in her freaking SLEEP. I never got to vent my anger at her. She used to hold his child -my stepdaughter- hostage for months. At that point, we hadn’t seen our daughter in nearly six months. SIX FREAKING MONTHS, man. I never got to go to her apartment and beat the ever living snot out of her like I wanted to. I never even EMAILED her to try and get any sort of explanation out of her. I was trying to keep the peace. I just pretended like she didn’t even exist.
So, now I ask you, what do I do with my ANGER?
There are days I just want to scream. ALL. DAY. LONG. There are days when I want to ignore everyone. How do I make that stop? How do I get past this?
How?
by Band Back Together | Jul 7, 2010 | Addiction, Addiction Recovery, Adult Children of Addicts, Alcohol Addiction |
I am an adult child of two alcoholics, and although there are nifty acronyms used to refer to us, I prefer my real name: Becky. The Internet knows me as Aunt Becky and I blog over at a seemingly incongruently named site: “Mommy Wants Vodka.” Perhaps you have heard of me, mixed into articles about Diane Schuler, the lady who killed her kids, bashing me for being a Cocktail Mom.
My blog was named as a tongue-in-cheek joke, which is easily lost in the negativity swirling about the tragedy. Perhaps on paper (or computer screen) this is how I sound: like a lousy drunk who is unfortunately a mother. When, you know, I can sober up enough to actually, you know, parent my children. I hate to shatter expectations to those looking for a quick target to let their anger at alcoholics out on, but I am not a drunk. Humor–tasteless to you, perhaps–is the way that I cope.
In reading up on the other issues facing my cohorts, my fellow children of alcoholics–who also, presumably, have names–I think that in spite of the flack that I get, humor is the far healthier way to handle it. I’ve somehow, by the grace of God, perhaps, been able to avoid many of the nastier lasting effects of my childhood. I am not shy, I do not suffer from low self esteem, and I don’t obsessively hoard china cat figurines.
I do have anxiety and guilt, and I frequently blame myself for things that never had anything to do with me. I cannot trust even my husband with certain things, not because he wouldn’t be unfailingly kind, but because it is ingrained in me to not trust other people.
For all of the controversy surrounding me on The Internet, on the sites that bash me, nothing–NOTHING–can compare to what swirls within me. Every day, every single day that I wake up, I wonder if today will be the day that it hits. We adult children of alcoholics are four times more likely than the general population to develop issues with substance abuse. FOUR TIMES.
For someone like me, who has not one, but two alcoholic parents, this number must be infinitesimally higher. So I wait. Somewhat impatiently, I wait for the day when I will feel the need to become staggeringly drunk and fall down the stairs. Or take to my bed, weeping at what has become of me.
It’s exhausting, this waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But I don’t think that drinking is Of The Devil, no matter how much I hate the smell of scotch and the scent memories that live on, well beyond their lifespan. While I do not recall the last time I had a drink, I have had one and I will continue to have them now and again. The liquor cabinet is well-stocked at my house, and always has been. I’ve not felt the urge to drink myself to obliteration in at least five years and I don’t longingly wait for a cocktail at the end of a long day. Frankly, for as uncool as I will no doubt paint myself now, forever banned from the tattoo-biker moms, I’d be horrified to drink at a playdate.
So I sit and I wait, and while I do this, I build a life for myself: I’m a mother, a writer, a wife and a friend. A daughter. A sister. A niece and a cousin.
My name is Becky, and I am not an alcoholic.
