Hurt

I wonder what people think about right before they kill themselves. 

This isn't a question.  This is a statement that I make aloud here because it's true, and it's a very taboo subject, and not easily brought up or welcomed by whomever I may be spending time with when this thought rumbles and hisses through my brain and through my heart.  This is a statement that barrels or chugga-chugga-choo-choos through my body like the Orient-Express from Paris to Budapest.  This train of thought can be either a heavy, rough, and massive thing, the color black as charcoal, or a delicate, careful, and moderated charmer like The St. Charles Streetcar down in Loozieanna, the kind that shines like a new penny.  Which train will come after me tomorrow, you ask?  Well, honestly, it just depends on the day.  

You see, this time 10 years ago, I was a completely different person.  I had just given birth to Molly, and had found out at 8 months pregnant that my mother actually took her own life rather than died in a car accident as I had been told my entire life.  I was 32 at the time.  I was very seriously clinically depressed and more than likely suffering postpartum depression.  I can tell you this:  My nerves have never recovered from any of that.  My heart has just started to recover, just in the last 2 or 3 years. But my nerves?  Nope.  

I was never a big drinker.  I didn't do it in high school.  Didn't do it in college.  When friends and I went to parties, I was the designated driver.  When friends and I went dancing, I was the designated driver.  Sure, I may have had a few Smirnoff Ice (with a watermelon Jolly Rancher dropped to the bottom of the bottle) but it was never an issue at all and was, in fact, celebrated.  And so it remained that I would just drive, and do so as a designate!  

So!  When I bought my first bit of alcohol at a REAL liquor store, I was this 32-year-old emotionally and mentally exhausted and fried new mommy and out of shape wife.  It started out innocently enough:  I'd pour a glass of wine into a plastic cup and freeze it for a few hours.  Upon rocking Molly to sleep, I'd go retrieve it from the freezer, where I would find it much like a treat:  Why, it had morphed into a wine slushy while I was busy with wifely and momly duties!  And there I'd sit right on the couch with a table spoon and a blanket and the remote control, and I'd savor every bite.  It was only a few times a week at that point, you see, and it was a nice way to unwind and relax with Todd after both our long, busy days.  I worked out of my house at that point (and for the 10 years that would follow) and so I never felt I truly ever got away from anything that ever got to me.  Work was where I lived.  I lived where I worked.  On top of that, we had a demanding newborn who unfortunately was born with my terrible inability to sleep.  On top of all THAT, I couldn't get out of my own head about leaving Molly with anybody, really. 

My aunts would come out to watch her periodically so that we could go to dinner, but neither Todd nor I really ever got a break.  Todd worked at the time 12-hour shifts with a job where the demands were growing more intense as the weeks passed.  I believe he struggled with depression at that same time, too, because let's face it, after one has children their lives are not ever their own anymore, and so we all grieve it a little.  We couldn't afford the stuff he wanted (RV, a new truck, a bigger home, a farm) and I truly believe it made him feel inferior to the people (strangers, even!) that he would see enjoying these "things" of theirs.  We would talk about it a lot at first, how other people "did" it and had all this...crap.  It was comforting to relate to him in that way because we both felt sorry that we couldn't afford what we wanted to do.  I wanted to travel and go see cool things like I'd grown up doing, but he was never interested in anything like that.  I did feel at one time that he understood that it was important to me to eventually do it, the traveling, the going, the seeking.    

Anyway.  

The whole wine thing started out innocently enough.  I will admit to anyone that I liked the way alcohol made me feel.  It numbed me.  It made my brain throb, hard.  Eureka!  I had finally found a way to shut off this brain of mine and just...be.  I'm no expert, but I believe with all my heart that trauma forces us all to deal with our hurts in ways that are self-satisfying and very much self-deprecating.  We eventually minimize, trivialize, and scrutinize everything about these methods we use to self-medicate and, before we know it, we've got ourselves an addiction,  and sometimes it looks like a 3-year-old wrapped it and sometimes it looks as though it were professionally packaged at Saks.  

When Molly was about 6 or 7 months old, I had begun to drink during the day.  After all, I rarely left my house, so what would it hurt?  Or that's how I guess i justified it.  By that point, it had not yet spiraled out of control, but I definitely needed alcohol 4 or 5 times a week.  I HATED Sundays because the package store was closed.  Then, just like that, by the time she was 1 year old I was hiding boxes of wine under the very bed I shared with my husband.  His alarm would buuuuuuuzzzzz at an annoying 4:15 a.m. and my eyes would abnormally fly right open.  I'd roll over, feed the baby, wait for him to leave for work, and then get up and fish the box out from under the bed.  The earlier I could begin drinking, the better, because it put me in a good mood.  Anybody who knew me then knew I was not a morning person and never have been a morning person.  Toast for breakfast with a side of red wine was my go-to as I laundered, cooked, played with Molly or read to her, did my own work to bring an income to my wedded table where I felt like I was a burden to sit...and we would dance.  I wore Molly in baby cocoons close to my body with both hands free so that I could use them to sort and put away clean clothes and not have to listen to her cry because she wasn't right there on top of me.  I felt smothered, not-breathing, and out of control.  Ah, hell, who am I kidding?  I WAS smothered, barely breathing, and out of control.  

Soon thereafter, Todd would come home and I wouldn't even be awake.  Yes, I did that in my child's presence.  I drank myself into oblivion at least once a week at that point...I drank until I passed out or fell asleep.  He took pictures of me and rubbed them in my face after I sobered up, but I deserved that every time.  Hell, I deserved worse because I did that and my child was at home with me.  Did I deserve to fry?  I guess it depends on who you ask.  But if you ask me, I believe with everything that I am that I deserved HELP, and urgently so.  

My Grandma and Grandpa Gorley came out on several occasions to try and "talk some sense" into me.  Todd called them out each time, and I know he did it out of love because he, too, wanted me to stop drinking.  He needed me to stop drinking.  And, so did My Molly.  Bless her heart!!!  I will never, ever know what any of that did to her.  I will never know how exactly it affected her.  For my little girl, I caused much, much trauma...and was too wrapped up in my addiction to even recognize that I was doing her such harm.  I knew it, I guess, but I felt hopeless and worthless and ashamed and completely at the bottom of my own abyss.  It was a long and dark, dark 4 years.  

Todd tried to get me help.  We had health insurance at the time through Baker Hughes, and when he called someone for a referral they told him I would be better off going to detox somewhere in Nashville...and for 28 days, no less!  Well.  That would have been fine!  I was ready to go! I wanted my life to change!  I hated that despicable habit I had developed, haaaated it with a fury!  I liked the way it made me feel, but I hated the aftermath and the whole messiness surrounding it.  I was completely consumed by when or how long it would be until my next drink(s).  Todd couldn't get FMLA to take care of Molly while I was in detox and recovery, or at least that's the line he fed me.  And, we didn't have anybody who stepped up and offered to care for her so that I could go away and get the help I needed and so desperately wanted.  And so, I continued to calculate my visits to the liquor stores so that my moves didn't "seem" like a pattern to onlookers.  I would also alternate my route to include driving to Oologah on Mondays, Bartlesville on Tuesdays, Coffeyville on Wednesdays, Vinita on Thursdays, and then, finally, Nowata locally on Fridays. 

After a few months of THAT madness, I just said "screw it" and stayed in Nowata to buy all my alcohol, but again, I would be very calculating in doing so:  Different times of the day, doing a "drive by" to see who was working at the liquor store and cross my fingers just hoping it wasn't Linda or Angelea like it was just yesterday.  After all...I didn't want THEM to think I was an alcoholic, you know?  Because, ooooh, the shame.  Once, I accidentally locked Molly in the car while I ran in.  She was asleep, thank goodness, but still.  Linda called George and he came and unlocked me.  He saved my life, because surely Todd would've killed me had he found out!  Another time, I pulled around the back and ended up running off into the ditch.  Again, Molly was asleep.  I hadn't been drinking, but I definitely had no business being at a liquor store in the middle of the damned day with my baby in her car seat!  Again, Linda called George and he came to my rescue.  I was so thankful that day...but for all, all, all, all, all the wrong reasons.  

Toward the end of my 3-year run-in with alcohol, there came to be an expanse of time that I could NOT turn off my brain with the use of liquid courage.  By that time, I had graduated and crossed the bridge from boxed red wine to the cheap, disgusting vodka.  Now, I don't really know a pint from a fifth to a quart, but I DID know that the higher the number that was right beside the mL on the often-black label of the vodka bottle meant there was more inside the bottle for me to get off on, and the cheaper the price tag, the better.  Seemed like a perfect past time, kinda, and sometimes it was flavored like vanilla cupcake and sometimes citrus.  Why, you ask?  Honestly, it just depended on the day.  

But at night?  Ah, night.  Nighttime would be when I would sit up and listen to music, just like I do now, but I would drink back then.  I would drink and cry, cry and drink.  And I know I'm not the brightest Crayon in the box, but I like to think I was able to dial the right number to reach out for help and to tell someone of my complete and utter sadness.  I just needed someone to listen to me.  I needed someone to hold me, and tight.  I needed someone to tell me that they loved me, and that my mother had loved me, and I needed someone to fight for me because the thought of me doing what I did to my body and my brain was too much for them to bear to let me go through.  I needed to be loved harder and softer than ever before.  I needed for someone to take my hand and tell me they understood.  I needed someone I trusted (which wasn't many!) to care for Molly while I worked on getting better.  I needed someone to be completely honest with me about my mom and everything surrounding her death so that I could finally put all that to rest, right where it should have been put all those years ago when I first was mature enough to know any of what they say is the real story.  I needed others not to judge me.  I needed for my husband to look at me with love and respect, rather than with disgust and anger, and I needed to be told I was worth waiting for.  I needed someone to value my health, my vitality, because clearly I was in no shape to care about my appearance or how much weight I'd gained from consuming all those liquid calories. But I didn't get it for whatever reasons.  None of it.  I don't believe my dad ever even found out about my addiction.  Maybe he's heard it on the street, I don't know, but he's never mentioned it to me.  People in my life have always been FABULOUS about that, not addressing hard issues as they need to be addressed.  My mother's family, my dad, my husband...and of course, my own mother. Me. It's almost like they all believed that by not making mention of bad things that they would just evaporate, disappear, and that things would get better all on their own, but I'm here to tell anyone who'll listen that problems don't get solved using that methodology.  So, in an effort for someone to hear me out, I called the suicide prevention hotline two or three times.  Each time, I was met with a busy signal, and I do believe there was a reason.  I would go from crying to laughing, because who else would have such luck, but me?  A suicide prevention hotline ideally has at least one individual on staff at all times to handle acute crises, right?   Those nights, nobody even picked up.  

I don't want anyone to misunderstand.  I am not trying to place the blame of my actions upon any other individual.  The fault lies with me, and I have never tried to not take responsibility for everything I did wrong.  You see, I really do feel that that is where Todd comes in.  He failed me just like I failed him.  He wanted respect, but for what??  Just because he was the man?  He wanted me to respect him while he got to go around, mad all the time, and hell bent to ruin everybody's life?  He somehow had permission to tell me I had ruined his life, but I never had the heart to say it back to him because...well, because of my kids.  He wanted to call the shots, but was never there.  And, after I got better and the sober days turned into weeks turned into months turned into years, he continually rejected any attempt of mine to express what I thought was my love coming through.  He never touched me.  We never held hands.  We never sat together in a good silence.  We never enjoyed our time together.  We never wanted to be stuck in the same vehicle together, with or without our keenly perceptive children.  We rarely slept in the same bed, especially the last few years.  He grew more and more bitter and angry, and in my recovery I grew lighter and happier and sunnier, like a flower getting everything it needs from its surroundings. Hurtful things were continuing to be said.  It would become impossible to have a conversation...but then again, I don't believe we have ever had any deep conversations.  If we did, I don't remember them.  That man has basically spent the last 15 years looking at me in a way that says just shut up!  Shut up, shut up, shut up!!  If he were a 6-1/2" -ft toddler, he would jump up and down and scream and cry and knock his head against the floor in perpetual motion.  That is what I did to him, and that is what I had reduced our marriage to prior to leaving his home with my precious, precious kids.  

Our marriage lasted longer than the marital successes of either of our parents, so I guess we've got that going for us if you're concerned with quantity over quality.  We kept right on chuggin' along, "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can," just like the tempo of Watty Piper's book, which just so happens to be one of my favorites from childhood. In 'The Little Engine That Could', each train gives different reasons for why it won’t, or can’t, help the toys. Despite the fact that they each feel that they are doing right, they may be doing the wrong thing by failing to help. The idea that there is a right and a wrong thing despite circumstances is moral absolutism. This means that you should do the right thing, no matter what, and that people who are mistaken about what is right and wrong can still do the wrong thing. And, given that, things are the way they are now because of decisions Todd and I both have made and how we have handled tough things like this as they have come up.  

So, yes.  I still wonder what people think about right before they kill themselves.  Do they see their children's faces there, emblazoned in their brains?  Do they see Jesus?  Do they think about their pets, who will no longer have a life as they have always known it always for their existence?  Maybe they are like my mother and thought about someone else coming after her if she didn't do it to herself first.  Maybe they are like my mother and thought about the debts they owed, and to the tempo of $800,000, no less!  Maybe they are like my mother and had a secret addiction, too.  I have been told she liked cocaine, but have no way of course to verify that.  Makes sense, though, I guess.  

I am here today because of the grace of God.  He has spared my life on so many occasions!  He delivered me from my addiction.  I prayed and prayed for a reason to stop for good, instead of just a short while such as a week or two.  And then he gave me twins!  TWINS.  Twins.  <3 And to make my long story even longer, and give me something to revise later when I feel the time is right, let me just say that I drank for about 4 or 5 months after they were born, but nothing to the extent of which I had before.  On April 30, 2019, I will have been sober for 6 years.  My addiction has cost me a loss of dignity, a loss of self-respect, job loss, loss of money.  I have managed to make myself so undesirable and so unlovable to the man I married in 2005 that I was positive I would be married to for the rest of my life, just 'cuz that's how it was supposed to work, but I went in to my marriage and unarmed.  I went in naive and hopeful and led around at the nose by what I guess was, at the time anyway, love.  I don't understand any of it a whole lot, but I do know that the last few years just changing my heart has helped me cope with everything.  I knew a few years ago we wouldn't be married much longer, and so the distance between us just grew, like the train picked me up in Paris to take me to Budapest...and where's Todd?  He's all the way over in Loozieanna, and always has been.  Not bad, not good.  It's just the way it goes sometimes, and I remain grateful for everything, still.  God is great and God is good.