unrequited

I once fell in love with someone who couldn't love me back..

Just an infant at the time, I didn't have the words. But I do remember.

 I remember in my chest, that tightens every time I ask for help and no one is seemingly there; I remember in my blood, that rushes to my head, every time I hear glass shatter; I remember in my lungs, that to this day, stop breathing in cautious expectation, every time I hear a car halt its engine.

I once fell in love with someone who couldn't love me back. 

At just the age of four, I had the words, but with my egocentric mind, I knew that everything bad and scary around me was my doing. I remember being too loud and too quiet, too daring and too afraid.

I remember in my fingers, that learned to lock together when no one else was there to hold my hand; I  remember in my stomach, that still eases every time I get on a swing, from days of rocking back and forth to calm the storming waves within; I remember in my shoulders, that still jolt each time I hear approaching sirens.

I once fell in love with someone who couldn't love me back. Not just someone- but some'two'. 

At 6 through 14, I was eager to please, to be seen as enough in their eyes, to be seen.

I remember in my knees, that bent down at the altar praying for love and acceptance for all; my eyes that squeezed back tears so many nights, realizing in my family it was not okay to be who I was- but they chose me, they saved me, and I owed them a daughter who could do right in their eyes. 

I once fell in love with someone that couldn't love me back. 

They took on a different name depending on the night: Jack, Jameson, Charles Shaw.. At age 15, they brought me a warmth that I had never felt before, a safety blanket that drowned out the infinite fear burning inside me. But this liquid love was one that knew no bounds and didn't have limits. When I consumed it, I was consumed by it. I could never have enough. And cunningly concealed beneath this seemingly safe blanket came horrors that I would never remember.

I remember in my back, stiff from all of the nights spent sleeping on cement floors, stock rooms, bathroom tiles-from nights I'll never remember; I remember in my throat, each time I go to swallow a pill and can still feel a cold metal blade pressed against my neck;  I remember in my sleep, when I wake up  sweating and screaming haunted by faces and spaces of my past. 

I once fell in love with someone who could love me back- all of me.

And their ability to do so challenged long standing beliefs about myself. 

I remember this in my chest, the way it slowed down when they held me in their arms, and in my deepest core where for the first time I felt seen and understood. I remember this in my eyes, that met theirs and could see a better version of me reflected back.

But I couldn't love them back... 

                     because I didn't know how.

                                      BUT I could learn.

I remember

Scene 1: Shame

The first time I remember encountering alcohol, I was four. I remember watching a man hold my mother down as she kicked her legs and cried, the sound of shattering glass and screaming. I don’t remember if this man was my father. I remember leaving our room to make sure my mother was okay and to remind her that my brother was still hungry- she screamed at me with tears in her eyes: “Go back to your room, right now!” When I tiptoed out of our room again in desperation, I found my mother crying naked on the carpet. I told her I didn’t like it when she cried. She comforted me assuring me she was going to drink “her medicine” and she would feel better soon. For some reason I knew that “her medicine” would only make things worse. She instructed me to let her finish drinking “her medicine” so she could take a nap. She reminded me, I knew where the kitchen was, and she directed me to get some food for my brother, adding one final warning, “Do not make your brother cry. Mommy is really tired. And that will only make her more sad.”

Pro-tips for not “making” a two-year old cry: Know how to tie their shoes (not too loose; but definitely not too tight), let them spill their milk on the carpet repeatedly, and if you really don’t want them to throw a tantrum and wake up your mother-- Let them climb on the counter and play with the knobs on the stove.

I remember believing that it was my fault she was so angry and so sad, and promising myself I would behave better the next time, so my mother wouldn’t leave us again. Little did I know, one day I would be crying on the floor kicking and screaming, as my mother lay in the room next door taking another one of her all day naps.

Scene 2) Shame-er

The first time I smoked a cigarette, I was eleven. I had been adopted almost six years. I was sitting behind my cousins' friend's four-wheeler in a wooded area in the mountains. The three of us smoked the whole pack together. I proceeded to vomit a colorful blend of Superman ice-cream and hot Cheetos. I remember thinking I would paint my room that color. I remember asking myself, "Why do so many people smoke these?", before soothing my throat with a Budweiser my cousins' friend passed my way. This was also the first time I willingly took my clothes off for a boy. And reluctantly allowed him to push his tongue down my throat. I remember walking back home, covered in dirt and guilt. I showered for two hours that night.

Scene 3) Shame-est

The first time I blacked-out from alcohol, I was at my best friend's aunt's apartment in Memphis. I was fifteen. My last memory was lying in the bathtub with her, fully clothed, the hot water showering upon us, as we laughed uncontrollably. I remember feeling like I never felt so connected to another human. We then kissed, and I remember thinking how beautiful she was, and seriously questioning my sexuality. As this thought passed, I was filled with intense shame and fear. I remember waiting for God to strike me dead, bracing myself for the lightning to strike our porcelain coffin. Instead, I let the hot water wash away my sins, as these thoughts and my memory faded into a black hole. It would take me years to find out how deep and inescapable this black hole really was.

Waking up the next day I felt a sickness I had never felt before, and the shock of being unable to piece together memories from the previous night. More than that, I remember thinking "I can't wait to feel this way again. My mind just shuts off and I don't feel anything!" I sought out any opportunity to acquire that feeling from that day forward. The nights I couldn't remember became a normal weekend routine. And my preference of drinking alone, grew into a relationship I came to know as love. Thus, my “I remembers” grew increasingly rare as I sought out this new love and inched closer to my legal homecoming.

Scene 4) No shame, no game

On my 21st birthday, I remember my friends surrounding me in my dorm's common living space, showering me with gifts and hugs, the room filled with genuine smiles and laughter. We then proceeded to the bar I would soon think of as my second home. I had 8 shots of Patron (buy 1 get 1 free) within the first 20 minutes. I remember sipping (inhaling) a gin & tonic as I signed up for multiple karaoke performances. I remember tripping up the stairs and staring into the spinning audience. I stood on the stage, placing one arm on my best friend's shoulder and wrapping the other around the mike's stand for balance purposes. I don't remember anything after that. I do know that I never touched Patron again. And that I rocked the stage that night. 

Bars would become my nightly (and eventually, daily) refuge.

Final Scene) A shame that slowly suffocates

 

It wouldn't be five more years until I even entertained the question of whether I was an alcoholic. Yes, both of my biological parents were, but I was nothing like them. What I couldn't see then, was I had the perfect recipe inside me for addiction: Genes, plenty of trauma, and a brain that wanted to kill me. And of course a paralyzing fear of everything inside me and around me.

The moment I remember officially accepting this identity, came a few days after my MSW graduation, (the best [sober] day of life). It was 11am and I was sitting alone at the bar, whiskey in one hand and beer in the other. I had fresh stitches down my arm, yet another black eye, and could locate a new bruise or scratch every time I had to pee. Which was pretty often. I remember observing the couple a few seats down from me at the bar, as I was finishing my last assignment--twenty-three tortuous pages. As usual, I used my fail-proof technique of drinking a glass of wine for each page I finished. Moving on to more effective liquids, as I finished the final paragraph. I remember watching this couple get up and leave with a glass “half-full” of beer and being equally shocked and horrified that they could just walk away and waste such precious alcohol. I thought about that pint of beer for days to follow. I remember asking myself, “do others spend as much energy thinking about things like this?", and realizing it was unlikely anybody would obsess to that degree about a lipstick stained, almost empty, pint of craft beer. I continued to drink in the subsequent days, a steady stream of blurred blackouts and stoned slumber. I checked into rehab a week later.  

         Forthcoming realizations:

• I could rarely limit my drink intake, even when I seriously tried. And I was willing to try almost anything once I had enough drinks in me. 
•  I almost always ended my day or night in a black-out, ideally after finishing the tasks that were required of me, but this was never guaranteed.
•  I ended almost every night/morning crying on the porch or on the couch or in someone's bed. No matter what the setting was, I always ended up crying uncontrollably. And doing things I couldn't remember but would always regret.
•  During my last semester, I frequently drank during class breaks, sitting on the floor in the handicap bathroom of the basement of the school of social work. I kept my wine and whisky bottles in the “closet” I found in the corner of the stall, filling up my thermos of coffee with Whiskey or my Starbucks Venti cup with a bottle of wine, so I could fully take in my lecture. Towards the end of the semester, I  often sat in class for half of the three-hour session, and then honestly decided I needed to go to the bar or get high before returning back to class, so I could really make the most of it.

My name is Natalie and I am not my mother, and I am not my father, but I am an alcoholic.

Today I am four months sober, or as I sometimes need to count:  178,560 minutes sober. I am committed to facing the pain and shame that I’ve drowned out for years with alcohol and other drugs, with sobriety, therapy, and vulnerability. I have alcoholism, but I also have a Master’s degree and a light up turtle that makes ocean sounds. I am broken, but not unfixable. I can do this, but not without help.

A letter to myself when submerged in the darkness

Natalie,

You've never felt a sadness this heavy. Today you woke up sobbing, before you even realized you were conscious. It's been so impossible to lift yourself out of this bed.

Your brain is spinning with questions that you can't seem to find the answers to. Why can't you do these simple things? It's never been this difficult to climb out of bed and face the day, to carry out these daily tasks that used to be so effortless. Why is it you can't make it through a day lately without going to the bathroom at least three times to sob?  You're coffee doesn't taste the same. Your favorite TV shows are no longer funny. Why do all these things that you used to love, that used to energize you, now send you running to your bed for refuge? You have SO much to do, but you just can't do it. You just want to close your eyes. Everything can continue moving around you, but you just can't move.

Everyday you're wading through this darkness, trying to find the smallest glimpse of light. You could always find that light within you, but it's never been this hard. You know it's still there somewhere, it must be. But it's fading fast. 

Nat, I want to remind you that you're going to be okay. You need to continue clinging on the things that bring you light, whatever it is in that moment that keeps you going. These moments will pass. I need you to try and remember the following things:

Please remember how many people care about you. You have to stop pushing everyone away, when you know you need their support now more than ever.  I've been watching you isolate yourself further from your friends and family, from those in your program, thwarting these connections that are supposed to be such a significant part of grad school.  You can't give up on these relationships. You don't have to face this alone.

Please remember the extent of the grief you're experiencing. And that it's okay to feel this sad. You're experiencing so much loss. Loss of a dream you held onto for so long, loss of your best friend and a sense of love you never could have imagined, loss of energy and excitement to do the things you enjoy most, loss of a sense of safety in your own home.. 

And you’re losing your mother. She’s really suffering, and you know there is nothing you can do to save her- and part of you knows how much she’s hurt you- and knows that what’s coming will be best for both of you-- but you’re so afraid of losing her forever. And you realize how close this day is. 

And then there's the sweeping loss, the sense of despair you can't even put words to. You've lost your sense of self, of purpose, the driving force that's moved you to help others and to help yourself. 

Please remember that you're going to grow from all of this, and you're going to come out on the other side. You're growing as I write these words. You now have radical empathy for your friends and family weighed down by depression, for the clients you work with...

  Look at this girl. 

She's still so scared. You need to protect her, to keep her safe, to take care of her. Because despite all the losses she's experienced, she still has so much to be grateful for, and so much more to gain! But she really needs you to advocate for her, to not give up on her. To fight for her now more than ever. 

You just need to find the balance. The balance between not letting the sadness win and giving it space to be felt- and to be felt fully. A balance between reaching out to those you care about most and who care about you, and still maintaining boundaries and protecting yourself.

But for today, you just need to be gentle with yourself. I know it’s your favorite season. There are perfectly crunchy leaves everywhere. There’s even a dog here. Yet, you cannot smile, you cannot move. Just finish your coffee and do what you can. At the very least, just get outside.

Things will get better. 

Love,

Nat