Today was my first session back in mandatory counseling (two words which I just now seem to have spelled correctly for the first time, despite the unbelievable amount of times I have typed them!)
The title and the picture may lead you to believe that I am mocking the sessions or not taking them seriously. This is not true. I am fully invested in the experience. But -- you have to have a sense of humor about things, yes? Otherwise, what the hell's the point?
I vomited so many issues up into that woman's lap that I don't think she knew where to begin. And I believe that's the biggest issue: If I had FEWER issues I might be able to, you know, sort through them and deal them out into nice even stacks and look at them objectively. Instead -- it's like the end of Alice Through the Looking-Glass with the cards flying all about, this way and that.
She took FIVE PAGES of notes.
We have agreed that I need to speak to a Substance Abuse Councilor, which is something that became evident this week, during the latest round of the flu or whatever the hell this illness is which has been biting me on the butt for two weeks now (although, once again, and I hope for the final time, I have AT LAST, in the past couple of days, beaten it).
I knew that my heavy drinking was not causing the problem, but I also knew that it couldn't possibly be helping. So I quit. Just like that. "Cold Turkey" as they say.
And that was even worse. Within fifteen hours I had broken out in an all-new fever (having only just got rid of the last one!), I was back on the couch drenched in sweat, and my hands were shaking almost comically, almost like something out of Reefer Madness.
I did have enough energy to hop online and check out the symptoms of alcohol withdrawal, where I went: check, check, check, check -- could go on for weeks?
This was not acceptable. I would end up in the hospital again, and believe you me I am never going to allow that to happen ever again! It was not just a humiliating experience on so many levels. It separated me from control over my life, and more importantly it separated me from the only things that made my life worth living: my home and my kitties. I swear to you, even if my appendix is bursting through my body, I will never allow this to happen again.
So I crawled back into the bottle. Three drinks later I was feeling fine. Not drunk, mind you -- just not shaking and not drenched in sweat.
Do I believe that the situation needs to change? You betcha. Who caused it? Me. My new damn doctor wasn't doing anything at all for me, and so I self-medicated to a degree that alarms even myself. I'm still self-medicating. This situation needs to change. So -- as soon as I get the referral, I'll be over to the substance abuse councilor, I promise.
I threw up so many issues into that poor woman's lap and I sobbed and I cried and I even told the joke from Mel Brooks's wonderful film Blazing Saddles:
You drink like that, and you don't eat?
You gonna DIE!
... and instead of laughing I sobbed like a damn baby.