a fresh start

starting a new process of recovery without rushing it.

It’s been 19 days. 19 days of choosing life, health and love. My dreams vividly remind me that there is still work to do as I face images of people I love in situations that feel far too real. Consistent relapse dreams that remind me of the work I need to do. My subconscious is powerfully at play here and it’s providing me with constant memories of my very recent past. Sleep is not a respite; it’s a rebellion.

Perhaps my brain’’s riot against me should be seen as a privilege. To remind me that further devastation is merely one more drink away. Or that, the grace that I’ve been given won’t be unconditionally given again. This is my last chance, I feel it in my bones—and more so, in the aches and pains that plague my body.

I’ve moved into a halfway house and I’m writing this in my second week. I was given a week of “grace”, meaning that I wasn’t handed consequences for breaking rules during my first seven days. Grace—there’s that word again. Everywhere I look. Grace.

I can’t explain it, but every time I enter this sort of environment, I tend to get ahead of myself. After all the hurt and all of the pain, I feel the need to just be good. Good, as in follow all the rules and make sure I don’t break a single one. Good, as in no longer disappoint others. However, I tend to mix this up with outright people-pleasing, a habit that has once served me but serves me no longer.

It no longer serves me but I see it starkly in my behaviour. The saying that stopping drinking is the easiest part is not cliché, it’s the truth. My behaviour is sneaking up on me, while my self-awareness is returning at full speed, even at just two and a half weeks.

Yesterday I had my first counselling session. I’ve been telling people that I’m all talk-therapy-ed out. That if I have to tell one more mental health professional my life story, which, funnily enough, keeps getting longer and longer, I might explode. But this one was different. My counsellor reminded me that my addiction is separate from who I am. And that if I keep going around the same mountain due to emotional pain (shame and guilt throughout my life) that hasn’t been dealt with.

Of course, she’s right. But I tend to confuse accountability with self-punishment. Being responsible for my actions doesn’t mean that I have to beat myself to a pulp with my words. It doesn’t mean that I’m a bad person. It means I’m human. I forget sometimes.

I want to be better now. I want to think as clearly as I did when I had multiple years of sobriety. But I know this is a process. One of patience and persistence. One of kindness and gentleness. All I need to do is take it one day at a time. Being fixated on the “destination” doesn’t lead to motivation, but anxiety.

There is not much else to say other than — I’m so happy I’m alive.