sober camp

the beginning, again

Over 16 years ago my little ol’ mommy blog was the space where I announced that I’m an alcoholic and was committing to quitting drinking, and also committing to writing about it. I wrote the post titled, Hi, my name is Heather the very day I quit drinking because I could not stand to not work through it out loud. I am a filterless open book. I can’t help it.

Hi, my name is Heather

and I’m an alcoholic…

For almost sixteen years I was an alcoholic in recovery.

About seven months ago, I relapsed.

Therefore, I mostly disappeared from this here Substack writing space because what is there to say if you are the type of writer that tells it all but isn’t currently willing to tell it all? I could not bring myself to write anything much unless I could tell the whole truth.

If I was going to say it out loud to anyone that was willing to listen,

Hi, I’m Heather...and I relapsed,

I would have to stop drinking.

I mean, it worked for accountability the first time-the telling. It got me on the right path and I stayed there for almost 16 years which I still consider a win. I had the honor of helping a lot of people on their own path to sobriety. It all still counts.

Those seven months ago, something snapped. (Spoiler alert—it was me; body, mind, sobriety, soul and spirit.) My nervous system had been in fight-flight-freeze-lather-rinse-repeat, for many years.

I had been working my way toward a relapse by giving and giving and giving and allowing my life to get more and more overwhelming. I didn’t create all the stress, not even close. Life was also like, Let me take you out at the knees too many times to count. Illness, so many deaths, my daughter’s chronic illness, the state of the country, the list goes on and on.

Those may sound like excuses, because there is nothing, for an addict, that a drink cannot make worse.

A nervous system, on the other hand, can become so whack-a-doodle that it tricks your mind. There are no limits to its need to shut down. Mine has constantly been an electric chair for too long, it could only remember the way caring for my terminally ill parents felt, day after day, year after year, and how losing them continues to feel.

I had also started a stressful job after all the years of caring for my parents; and lo and behold, it requires me to care for caregivers. Did I realize that might be triggering? No. My mind had no place for wisdom and clarity.

There are micro-traumas every day in the caregiving life; and often traumas that are the opposite of micro, like that time I was helping my dad in the bathroom and he started to pass out while vomiting at the same time, and I held him up; that six-foot-two man. I called for my husband and we helped him to bed, like carrying a wobbling drunk with no ability to use his legs, a centimeter at a time. He lay there, where he could not speak and his eyes were rolling back in his head and he was still vomiting while I called 911. I was there for these…events…and I will never regret it because that man loved me so well and serving him was an honor.

But yes, it took its toll in just the way he worried that it would.

A few days before he died I told him I would be okay, as if it was permission for him to go. He looked me in the eye and said, “No, you won’t.” And we both cried and said nothing more about it.

That wasn’t cruelty, it was truth-telling; it was love. He knew my identity, for better or worse, was wrapped up in years of caring for them both. He knew our connection was too strong for me to lose him and be “okay”. He knew it the same way he always knew my “fine” was a lie. All those times I came through the door after caring for my kids, to care for them, right next door.

How are you?
Fine.
No, you’re not. I hate that word, he’d say. Then I’d tell him everything.

:::

Alcohol loosens. It turns off that feeling of being electrocuted by your insides. What a relief. So it worked, until it didn’t.

The deep breath and long exhale that came with drinking slowly stopped being attainable. It was like the booze held its breath while trying to strangle me. Now that is a mean trick. For many of us, alcohol is an abusive lover, cajoling you, cunning and powerful with love promises, and then punching you in the face.

And still, there is this:

Despite this relapse, all those years and even in those seven months, I was growing and changing and getting wiser. I was. And nothing will ever take any of that away. It all matters and it is with me as I sit here writing to you from sober camp, a term coined by my 15 year old daughter.

Sober camp is a thing that’s like going to treatment, but totally isn’t. I made it up and Elsie named it. We aren’t professionals.

I had wanted (badly) to go to an inpatient program that focuses as much on mental health and trauma as it does on addiction. But due to the state of health insurance, I would have to pay thousands and thousands of dollars up front with no payment plan option, and then 20% of the rest after that—which would mean more thousands I do not have. When the nice lady on the phone told me this, after we had been making the plan for me to come, I burst into tears and I was not embarrassed.

I still knew I needed to get out of my life for some time to heal. I knew that I needed to do a lot of therapizing (totally a word) and I knew that being at home would keep me stuck in my current…condition. Home with all of its demands and distractions and interruptions and needs. So I looked for a small cabin, and I asked some friends to help me afford almost a month in it. They did. What a miracle.

Right now I’m sitting at a little round table in that little cabin. Walking in the door, strangely, felt like coming home. To myself, I suppose. My kids brought me here, all three of them. They helped me lug laundry baskets of stuff inside, and some groceries. They looked around and in things and declared it good.

My middle boy is going through a really hard thing and I said, “Maybe I should not be gone right now,” but as soon as the words hit the air between us he gave me the love and grace I needed. No, I want you to do this, it’s okay.

But that is what most mothers do, right? Sacrifice, set ourselves aside, answer to every need just as quickly as we can. I’ve over-done that all 21 years of being a mother. Everything feels urgent and overwhelming all the time. I jump to it to get through it.

Then I continued to live that way while taking care of my parents at the same time while also doing my best to serve my community. I’m no saint, I just cannot help myself. My ADHD-empath mix often spurs me to immediate impulsive action instead of a moment of reflection and assessment of what is for me to do and what is not. I’m working on it.

Again, this sounds like an excuse or blaming other things for my relapse, but I promise that it’s not. This is only story-telling.

Posting this, just as I did all those years ago, is my way of tangibly turning a corner. I let the boulder on my shoulders roll off outside this cabin door. Or wait, that’s not true. But I did begin to relax my shoulders enough to allow release to begin; to turn toward healing. It’s time to recover. I am going to make the most of this time-resting, reading, writing, grieving, therapizing (individual and group), and sitting in the quiet (or maybe learning how to sit in the quiet).

I am not a fan of phrases like, You have to put your own mask on first…or even, self care. I haven’t been able to put into words why. It’s not about thinking I don’t deserve it. It’s that I have not had the space to do it, or so I thought. Even though I have the insight and enough lack of denial that I can see it was more than a thought, it was a deep belief. Because caregivers of people with illnesses know that almost always, there really is literally no time. You forget to even look in the mirror, which means you’re probably not doing a thorough skin routine. That just seems like another chore and there are big needs all around you, all the time.

I’m too often an “all or nothing” thinker and doer. So I didn’t know how to put my mask on or care for myself. I didn’t know how to count even deep breaths as a moment for myself, or how to do something small and simple to remember myself. My belief was no time, the end. Instead of, I have very little time but progress, not perfection. Just breathe. Just laugh. Dance.

Instead of “no time to write,” maybe it’s just write a little note to yourself with one little expereince of the day that you want to remember. Like micro-journaling. These middle of the road options didn’t even enter my mind.

Because my overwhelmed rapid-fire mind, my aching heart, and my exhausted electric body took over and left me behind. In the dust. Maybe on the ground. Feeling alone and hopeless and beaten. Which is a painful place to be, especially if you’re trying to drink it away.

Here at sober camp, I hope to return to myself.

Hi, my name is Heather.
I’m not fine.
I’m getting there. No wait, I’m not. I hate that word. I’m not fine, and I’m not ever going to have a goal of “fine”. Instead, I’m going to thrive.

Thank you for being a part of my story.