"You could have a steam train, if you'd just lay down your tracks"
You know what I love?
Counseling.
Holy shit do I love counseling.
Even when I don't have a major breakthrough, or whenever I dread going for whatever lame excuse, I still love going, because it's such an amazing release. I cry in counseling. I cry a lot. And because I allow myself to cry there, I don't cry as much in public places, which I was prone to doing before I'd go for my emotional cleanse.
I talk a lot about the heavy shit that I've been trying to cope with as well, and do my best not to babble on about pointless issues. I have to go in there focused, go in there with an open mind, and go in there without any fear of judgement. It is my "safe zone" where I'm allowed to think any kind of crazy thought, where I'm allowed to cry without feeling embarrassed or ashamed, and just be as honest as possible with myself.
Because if I'm not honest, well then there's not much point in going, is there?
What I really love, though, is having a blank canvas, so to speak, with each new session, and seeing what I'm able to come up with by the end. My counselor, Dale, is a lovely, soft-spoken woman who encourages me and nudges me with tough love, and makes me see things differently, especially whenever I'm being particularly hard on myself. And I can be pretty hard on myself.
Today's topic was my newfound sobriety, and the most recent trip-up I had over the Memorial Day weekend when I ignored my sobriety and got drunk. Not super ugly drunk, but I did drink a lot, and considering I hadn't drank anything for four months, I was pretty wasted.
And you know what? It felt awesome. Being drunk again was like hooking up with an old friend and laughing at all of our old inside jokes. I laughed, I danced, I made out with a dude that I had only known for a few hours, and I once again drenched myself in that amazing freedom that alcohol gives me.
The next day, however, my old friend and I didn't quite see eye-to-eye. I was hung-the-fuck-over and wanted to die. I didn't kick myself too hard for momentarily falling off the wagon and getting drunk. It wasn't that big of a deal, and people make mistakes from time to time. I'd survive. This wasn't the end of the world, and if anything served as a reminder as to why I decided to get sober in the first place. Naughty Sammi Jo for drinking an entire bottle of Pimm's and two tequila shots, but know better for next time.
Today, though, what I recognized is that if I'm going to be sober, then I need to genuinely be sober. I can't swing back 'n' forth pandering on sobriety. I'm just sober. That's it. No other option. I simply just don't drink anymore. And I need to really be okay with that, and accept it, otherwise this will be a much harder battle. Before, during my first four months of sobriety, I always had the option in my head that maybe I'd go back. Maybe I'd learn how to be a "casual drinker" or a "social drinker," or I'd be able to teach myself how to have one and then stop. Even though I was on a six month stint of No Alcohol Ever, part of me already knew that once those six months were over, I'd be back at the bar with a giant Long Island Iced Tea pitcher to celebrate. That just made sense, and instead I celebrated early at this Memorial Day BBQ.
Getting drunk on that Sunday only reaffirmed my decision on getting sober, and staying sober. No more cutting corners and having a small sip here, or a little taste there, and justifying it in my head that "I'm not really drunk" or "it's only one sip so it doesn't count" any longer. I am stronger in my conviction, and it's a good feeling.
I've also accepted that being sober is a big part of my life now. Before I tried to play it down like it wasn't a big deal, and sweep the conversation under the rug, but I've accepted that this is who I am now, and it's okay. It's time to let that Old Sam go, say a final farewell to Sharon, and fully embrace the new, sober me. Besides, new Sober Sam ain't half bad. I'm learning to like her more and more with each passing day.