My weekend plans came to an abrupt end when I decided to leave my much anticipated family gathering and head home early. Spending time with my family of origin unaided by any substances or previous coping mechanisms was far more difficult than I had anticipated. I felt open and raw like a fresh wound working to heal. I could hear everyone so clearly. And I had thoughts on everything being said. But for the first time ever, I didn’t feel the need to comment. I just wanted to be back in my protective bubble.
I woke up in a tent this morning after a fitful night of sleep. Rain gently pelted the tarp we had hung above my campsite yesterday and I felt trapped in that 7’x9’ space. I had the same waking thought as I had when falling asleep: “I want to go home.” But I didn’t feel like I could go. I was overcome with “shoulds”. The reality though was that I’d worked my ass off the day before, I’d seen who I had come to see, and I really didn’t want to be there. I was overcome with emotion that I didn’t understand. Where was it coming from? Why was I feeling the urge to cry?
Once again in my recovery, I underestimated the space needed to heal. I had walked into a pit of triggers without even thinking that it might not be the safest place for me right now. I loved the people I was surrounded by but they were instrumental in my disease. Not in my recovery. So I gave myself permission to pack up and go. I made a support phone call, loaded my car, said my goodbyes, and proceeded to cry for 45 minutes of barreling down that rural Louisiana highway.
What I was experiencing felt distinctly like grief. The pain of loss. The emotional upheaval of a life in transition; shedding the years of being that did not serve me and growing into a person I can be proud to be. I have a lot to unpack and much work to do. But today I can be proud I made a sober choice for my own self-preservation. #234days #soberliving