Where It Takes Me

June 6, 2007

The sun wakes me up. It is a sparkling day, a Saturday, and the trees are in full blossom, the sky a brilliant blue.

I close my eyes.  Everything hurts.   My head is pounding, my throat scratchy and dry.    Every muscle aches; I can't lift my head off the pillow.   The night before is a blank, everything after 6pm is simply gone.   A vague memory of my husband's disgusted face surfaces, and I push it down.     Oh crap, I think, another day.  

The kids are playing outside; their laughter floats through my open window, taunting me.    I slowly turn my head to look at the clock.   It is already 10am, and I know my husband is pissed.

Carefully, I sit up, and a wave of nausea strikes.   I sit, trembling, on the side of the bed until it passes.  

I can't do this anymore, I think for the millionth time.  But, of course, I will.  I made it until 4pm yesterday, and had a drink to celebrate.   The rest is a blank.   My stomach flips as I think of yet another promise to myself smashed to pieces.   

Halfway down the stairs I sit with my head in my hands and wait out another wave of nausea.   A drink would make me feel better, but my hidden bottle of wine is in the downstairs bathroom.   It seems a million miles away.

"I'm taking the kids somewhere," my husband says.   I look up and he is at the base of the stairs.   He won't even look at me.    I can feel his anger from here, like a red force field pressing against me.    I don't respond; I put my head back in my hands and wait for them to leave.

I haven't eaten in three days, but I'm not hungry.    I'm never hungry anymore.   Just thirsty.   Just a bottomless thirst that holds me in its grasp.    The door slams shut, and I shuffle my bloated body to the bathroom.   I take one drink, and wait.   It stays down.    I take another drink, and the edges of my hangover soften, my muscles relax.  

Carrying the bottle of wine, I walk to the closest place to rest - an overstuffed armchair.   I curl up in the chair, cradling the bottle in my lap like a child.   

I doze in the chair off and on all day.   Every time I wake up, I take a sip from the bottle and pray for oblivion.   When my husband comes home five hours later I am still there. 

I don't know it, of course, but I'm three months from the end.   Ahead of me are two hospital stays and three stints in rehab.   On that Saturday, though, I simply sit, full of shame and fear, and wish for it to stop.     I can't imagine a life without drinking, and so I pray that I will fall asleep and not wake up.

That's where drinking took me.

June 6, 2010

The sun wakes me up. It is a sparkling day, a Saturday, and the trees are in full blossom, the sky a brilliant blue.

I feel a tap on my shoulder.   "Momma?  You awake?"   I slowly turn my head and see two sets of eyes looking at me expectantly.    "What are we going to do today, Momma?"  they ask.

My husband is already up, I can hear him tinkering away outside on his boat.   I pull the kids into bed with me, and we cuddle for a few minutes.    We make a plan to go to the playground, the bead store and then food shopping. 

I cook breakfast for everyone - frozen waffles with extra syrup for the kids, fresh fruit and yogurt for the grown-ups.    After breakfast the kids go outside to play, and Steve and I sip coffee and chat.   

I tell him about a dream I had last night, that I turned the front room of our house into a jewelry store.    We talk about the future, how great it would be if making jewelry could be my real job when Finn goes to Kindergarten next year.   

The kids and I leave for the playground, blasting Kidz Bop in the car and singing out loud.    We go to the bead store, stop for lunch and ice cream, and top the day off with a trip to the grocery store.   The kids love the grocery store.  

We walk in the door, tired and happy, four hours later.  Steve is standing in the doorway, grinning like a man with a secret.   

"I have a surprise for you," he says.

He leads me to the front room of our house, what used to be a dining room but has been a make-shift jewelry studio for me for the past two years.   With a flourish, he opens the door.

My heart catches in my throat as I peer into the room.   "Welcome to the world headquarters of Shining Stones," he says.

He made  me a store.    He completely gutted every cabinet, created jewelry displays where we once kept our formal china.   He moved my beading table to a sunny spot in front of the window, and brought in the overstuffed chair as a place for people to sit and chat.   

Greta and Finn spin about the room, squealing gleefully at the jewelry displayed on every surface.   

He believes in me, I think.     

"Oh, thank you," I say, as we hug.   "Thank you thank you thank you."

I steal a glance at the overstuffed armchair, and my mind pings back to that day three years ago.   I shut my eyes and send up a prayer of gratitude.   

This is where recovery takes me.