Anxious mornings.
Its a cold and its a broken hallelujah.
Thread Starter
Join Date: Aug 2011
Posts: 2,887
Anxious mornings.
There's this moment, right before a planes nose is about to ascend, where everything feels possible. You are moving along on the tarmac, gaining momentum, anticipating the take off. Then, ever so smoothly, off you go. That's my favorite moment in flying. It's as if the whole Universe is suddenly accessible in a single instant. Where anything can happen and your imagination is the only thing that limits you to your full potential.
That's what the instant of waking up sober feels like to me.
It's just a single moment in time, but with it brings infinite potential. There is this nervous excitement that comes forth from the body's release of adrenaline as you come to and realize that the day holds...everything.
In my darkest despair, when I thought the bottle was my best friend, that single moment of coming to consciousness after passing out usually fully clothed, with the remnants of yesterday's mascara firmly glued to my face as a reminder of how poorly I had treated myself, yet again, chipped away at my soul. Every morning spent in that state of utter hell, took with it a piece of me. Not only my youth and my fading beauty, but it swept away my dreams and hope for any future of peace and tranquility amidst the anxiety that hangovers brought with them. My reality was that there was nothing but this never ending cycle of drink to blackout, spend the next day sicker than a dog, and repeat.
And repeat.
And repeat.
The moment I open my eyes now, I still have to make a conscious effort to remember that the last 100 days have been spent in sobriety. I am still not trained to believe that that moment is one of peace and I continue to awake with a bit of hesitation.
Not nearly as bad as when I was drunk, but it still lingers as my reality.
Those days spent in never ending fear was all I knew. For decades. Pacing while trying to not vomit for a tenth time was my life. Day in and day out. Double buckets. Bile out of the nose. Gasping for air in between dry heaves that would relentlessly take up the morning and early afternoon.
And waiting.
Waiting for the doom to lift.
My brain is still trained to default to that. I have to actively chose to not slip into anxiety. Every day. I have to remind myself, often that that me is in the past.
She's dead and buried under a pile of wine bottles and Virginia Slim cartons and scrubby too large t shirts and yoga pants.
There is no room for her on this journey.
When the plane begins her ascent.
That's what the instant of waking up sober feels like to me.
It's just a single moment in time, but with it brings infinite potential. There is this nervous excitement that comes forth from the body's release of adrenaline as you come to and realize that the day holds...everything.
In my darkest despair, when I thought the bottle was my best friend, that single moment of coming to consciousness after passing out usually fully clothed, with the remnants of yesterday's mascara firmly glued to my face as a reminder of how poorly I had treated myself, yet again, chipped away at my soul. Every morning spent in that state of utter hell, took with it a piece of me. Not only my youth and my fading beauty, but it swept away my dreams and hope for any future of peace and tranquility amidst the anxiety that hangovers brought with them. My reality was that there was nothing but this never ending cycle of drink to blackout, spend the next day sicker than a dog, and repeat.
And repeat.
And repeat.
The moment I open my eyes now, I still have to make a conscious effort to remember that the last 100 days have been spent in sobriety. I am still not trained to believe that that moment is one of peace and I continue to awake with a bit of hesitation.
Not nearly as bad as when I was drunk, but it still lingers as my reality.
Those days spent in never ending fear was all I knew. For decades. Pacing while trying to not vomit for a tenth time was my life. Day in and day out. Double buckets. Bile out of the nose. Gasping for air in between dry heaves that would relentlessly take up the morning and early afternoon.
And waiting.
Waiting for the doom to lift.
My brain is still trained to default to that. I have to actively chose to not slip into anxiety. Every day. I have to remind myself, often that that me is in the past.
She's dead and buried under a pile of wine bottles and Virginia Slim cartons and scrubby too large t shirts and yoga pants.
There is no room for her on this journey.
When the plane begins her ascent.
Congrats on 100 days sober! 
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