Looking back, perhaps it was a tall order to get sober, quit smoking, lose my mother to a five-year battle with breast cancer, and re-join the ranks of the nine-to-five as a social worker serving individuals facing the deadliest form of cancer, all in the same year. In fact, it might seem downright absurd—if it weren’t true.
For the past few weeks I have been fantasizing about starting a new life in some far-away land—sans the husband, the two dogs, the grieving father, and the job. It would be easy to do: simply exchange a plane ride for my daily commute to the office. Maybe this explains why I’ve been hoarding cash in a hollowed-out can of corn in the pantry. Preposterous? Yes. But it helps.
Not having a vacation in eighteen months doesn’t help. Most of my paid time-off last year was used in some fashion towards my mother’s illness: routine visits to her oncologist; urgent visits when the pain became unbearable; pre-surgical tests; the simple-turned twelve-hour surgery; post-surgical intensive care; hospice; and finally, funeral arrangements. My eighty-two year old father-in-law’s ongoing battle with renal disease, combined with unwavering tenacity for an ever-diminishing autonomy isn’t helping, either. (Though it has succeeded in causing my otherwise placid husband to develop a nervous twitch.)
One by-product of being the “neurotic, perfectionist, addictive-type” is that I’ve consumed a mountain of self-help books, and between obsessive reading habits and a bachelor’s degree in psychology, I can pontificate with the best of them. I even joined yoga, and completely embraced this new lifestyle—for two full sessions. (Yoga was the final straw for realizing that I was stretching myself too thin, if you’ll pardon the pun.)
My therapist hints at Bipolar disorder, and I swiftly re-direct such suspicions. I prefer my depression straight-up, thank you very much. After all, I wouldn’t want to complicate things.
Since I can no longer rely on drinking and smoking as effective (albeit, destructive) coping mechanisms, I have been forced to embrace healthier habits. So I started an exercise routine and I now eat “healthful” foods. One of my favorite gifts of sobriety has been a return to parts of myself long buried by booze, such as re-connecting to a full and active fantasy life and renewed capacity to focus, read and feel. A.A. calls it ‘clarity,’ and it comes at a price. For every glorious moment you feel fully alive and grateful for your newfound sobriety, you also face the grief of lost opportunities, shockingly bad behavior, and unfulfilled potential marred by years of active substance abuse.
