Ideas of Grandeur

When I drank, I would experience a false elevation of self. I felt smart and intelligent; full of self-righteousness. I would have all of these grandiose ideas about me, my life, and my future. I felt on top of the world- nothing was out of my reach and there was nothing I could not do.

Then I would wake up (well, come to) the next morning and all of those thoughts and feelings I had been so sure of, so wrapped up in, were replaced with something much less ambitious and desirable. Whatever interminable view I had of myself the night before became a huge brick dropped into the sea. Ker plunk! All the way down to the bottom; as though it had never existed at all. I would wake up feeling physically and emotionally sick. Distraught. My thoughts crying out- Oh no, no, no! I’ve done it again! The guilt. The remorse. Memories of the night before slowly coming back in jagged bits and; all broken up, trying to piece them together: excruciatingly painful. I was in a perpetual state of mental anguish; and I’m not sure what became more agonizing for me- the ability to remember or the realization that I could not recall events that had taken place just a few hours before.

I tried to act as if- as if it wasn’t a big deal, as if it wasn’t that bad. So what? So what. But acting as if wasn’t enough to stop the twisting and turning in my head and the wrenching in my gut; the only thing I knew to quiet anxiety, the panic, the rising self-hatred, the sense of self-betrayal was to drink.

Craziness.

Total insanity.

But I did not know what I didn’t know. I did not know of any other way, did not know any other way to get relief and alcohol obliterated the reality that was my way of life. Alcohol relieved me of myself and that is what I needed. I needed to put thoughts of who I was away; hide them; extinguish them and alcohol, lots of alcohol, did that for me.

The craziest thing is- alcohol was perpetuating that burning need to escape myself.

The burden of the sickness that is alcoholism is so heavy. It is so unbelievably heavy and it is absolutely relentless in its efforts to distort itself. It becomes this living, breathing thing so horrific because you don’t want to live with it and yet you are terrified at the thought of living without it. That was me and I was suffocating, so helpless in escaping its grip and yet afraid that it might let go.

Every day. Every. Single. Day. I wake up in gratitude to not feel that way. So thankful to no longer wake up to that old way of life, that old way of living I had settled for. So grateful that I don’t wake up consumed with fear thinking, “Oh no! What have I done?!” So thankful to not wake up to the burden of my disease weighing me down; baring down on me like a ton of bricks.

I’m astonished when I look back at what I forced myself, and the people that cared about me, to endure. I am dumbfounded to recall that I once didn’t think “it” was that bad. Because it was bad: it was a horrible, terrible thing. I thought that I was free, but have come to understand that I was nothing more than a compliant prisoner, a puppet.
I don’t feel like that today and haven’t for some time. I don’t feel a need to escape myself today. Today, I wake up in the moment, tethered to reality, looking forward to what the day may bring. That, to me, is such a gift- a miracle all in itself- everything else is extra.