Making the right choice; Fighting Addiction.

Yesterday was horrible. Not just because my symptoms are bad lately, the weather sucks and it’s dark by 5pm. What made yesterday so awful was my mother saying things that were frankly cruel and I am almost certain she has no idea of the impact it had on me.

As I explained in my last entry, she has been helping me out with getting around the past couple of days. While we were sitting on my sofa, she asked me why I’m so tired. I’m pretty sure I rolled my eyes and simply explained, yet again, that it’s probably M.E. but I’ll find out in the new year if my GP can finally get a referral through.

To cut a long story short, she went about her usual psychological need to play the martyr and made herself out to be suffering a hell of a lot worse than I am and that I am simply suffering from “a lack of motivation.” Yes, mother. Of course. This lack of motivation comes from where exactly? The fact I had no choice but to stop studying with the OU because I became so ill it was impossible, but before that I had managed to get accepted into a top 10 university to study medical neuroscience purely based on my work from the previous year.

I’m not one to shout and scream about my achievements, but this is something I am so proud of… I don’t have A levels, I haven’t been in any sort of work for 7 years and an institution like this university had every reason to reject me. But they didn’t, because despite all the health issues that were going on in 2010-11, I still managed to achieve more than I ever had before. Yes, I needed extra tuition, extensions and a lot of support to cope with the workload, but I did it.

Anyway. By now I’ve learnt it really is a waste of energy to call my mother out on her B.S. and it’s best to just be quiet. So I sat there and my brain immediately shot to my old friend, Jack Daniels. Then to the razor blade I have kept hidden away, just incase. Which is the lesser of two evils? In this situation I’d usually binge and purge but I really couldn’t be bothered. It takes a lot of energy to eat! I know what you’re thinking, surely purging is more energy sapping, but it’s really not. And yes, I do have pretty much every method of self-abuse in my arsenal now.

Long story short, I became incredibly distressed and I ended up in a state of dissociation. I know I dissociated because the next thing I remember is I’m not in my PJs, my hair is dry, I have some make up on and I’m sat on my floor holding a 70cl bottle of Jack Daniels and Lily is meowing at me, rubbing up against me… She knows when something is wrong. I have no memory of going out to buy the whiskey. I’m just stuck with it taunting me.

Still dissociated, I think, I am watching myself holding the bottle. Stroking it. Watching the liquid inside move around. That familiar sound that is oh so comforting. Just open the bottle and everything will be ok again. It will stop hurting. You’ll stop thinking. I want to smell it, but opening the seal on the bottle spells disaster. At the base of my existence I know I can’t be around open alcohol bottles. The addiction is so strong. That’s why I was put on disulfiram a.k.a. Antabuse. I should still be taking it but M.E. referrals dictate that I am on absolutely no medication or under any psychiatric or substance abuse services. It was a calculated risk my GP and I took. I also know if I start drinking I will lose what little I have left, and I cling on so hard to my 22 weeks and 6 days’ worth of sobriety.

I have absolutely no idea how but I pulled myself back into the real world enough to comfort Lily, and reassure her that we weren’t going to be visited by the police tonight. The same officers generally come, and they like Lily. She likes them too. She won’t leave my side. I go on MSN and talk to a close friend. We support each other through the rest of the night.

By midnight I’m utterly exhausted. I still think about the razor blade, but I want to sleep more than I want to feel that ‘rush’ right now. I take some extra medication to keep myself safely sedated, and talk to my boyfriend. He knows what happened. I can’t lie to him about what’s going on. Hearing his voice calms me enough to be able to go to sleep. Lily sleeps next to me on the bed instead of her usual bed which sits facing my side. She needs to be close. For both our sakes.

In the cold light of day; I’m scared. I know I’m effectively sleeping with a loaded gun under my pillow now. I don’t want to pour it away. It’s my safety net. Especially as the next few weeks will be the ultimate test of my psychological strength, it’s nothing other than a comfort blanket to hold onto. I NEED IT. Just incase. It’s not out in the open. It should take conscious thought to access where I’ve hidden it.

I’m not making the ‘asshole choice’ to drink today. I care too much about my relationship, my cat, my sanity. Drinking will only lead me to the psych ward or force me into the rehab centre I’ve fought so hard to stay out of. I want to drink, but I don’t need to. The physical dependency is gone. It’s my choice now, and I choose to make the right choice today, tomorrow, the day after….

I am stronger than a collection of chemicals in a sealed bottle that only serve the purpose of killing me. That’s what it comes down to. If I start drinking again, I’ll die. It was only February this year that my use became so extreme that I stopped breathing. Yes, I was taking a frankly terrifying amount of Klonopin ontop of 20+ units a day but I know that is what will happen again, and this time I won’t happen to be in hospital when my body says enough. Alcohol-induced psychosis is not something I ever want to go through again either.

So screw you, Jack Daniels. So far, you’re my bitch and oh how I love tying you up and cracking the whip. I don't want to die because of you!

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