We bought a Christmas tree.
My angel little boy visited, with my loving, supportive husband.
They kissed me. Told me they love me.
But sometimes, usually at night, I feel so sad and alone.
I’m afraid there’s something so wrong with me that I’ll never get better.
I’m afraid to fail.
Part of me wants to run, to rebel.
I’m afraid of disappointing people. Of hurting people.
I want to rewind to when I didn’t believe that I had this disease. The disease of addiction.
To when the word “alcoholic” didn’t apply to me, not in my mind.
Addicts die. Often. All of the time. People are used to it. It’s just the way it goes.
I’m afraid of my new friends dying when we leave here.
Of myself dying.
I’m afraid of jail.
I was a good girl, an “A” student, a smart kid. Now I’m a ditch kid, one of the f*ck ups, one of the bad group who lies and gets in trouble with authority.
When did that happen?
How did that happen?
How did I end up in handcuffs last week?
How did I end up in a hospital bed alone, an I.V. in my arm, not knowing how I got there? Not remembering what happened?
Can’t I go back?
Why is my brain still telling me that maybe I’m not an alcoholic? That well chilled chardonnay is lovely, not to be missed?
Will I never be normal?
Why do I love myself but not feel loved, not feel whole, not feel safe?
Why do I feel unworthy?
I have some questions.