(And now we’re up to date: July 15, 2021)
I took my youngest son into Boston this past Sunday. We visited Martin’s Memorial Park. It was beautiful and sad, and made me stop to feel such gratitude that I have my boys with me safe and sound. But there was an uncomfortable pit in my stomach. It was gnawing at my insides; and it took me a bit to sort it out.
Fifteen years ago, I moved to South Boston after my divorce. It was an amicable divorce. Neither one of us really wanted to get married in the first place. We just weren’t emotionally equipped to say so. Anyway, living in South Boston was a remarkable time of independence and solitude. I was starting a ‘new chapter’ in my life. And there was so much hope and wonder for love and a family someday.
Through it all, I drank. With friends, on work trips, or with my dog (in other words, alone). Some days were great! Other days…..well..…..I’m surprised I’m not a statistic. One thing was constant throughout those times: I didn’t realize the progression towards dependence that was ramping up.
Last week, I hit 10 months with not a drop of alcohol; and I’ve been so happy about it and joyous in the freedom from dependence. But going into Boston had me ‘idealizing’ those drinking times…and that was the cement-like feeling in my gut. It turned me upside down. I’m still upside down (perhaps why I type here right now). I can talk it through and be 100% certain that vodka isn’t what made those times fun. But those stupid neuropathways were fired up on Sunday, and it’s taking a longer time to make the buzzing in my head go away this week.
So, I suppose it’s time for some tools: Off for a run, then to hug my little boys and remember that the life I have now is the life I was hoping for back then.