I am far too good at isolating. I have a huge list of phone numbers from meetings and I haven’t used a single one of them. (My cat seems to think that right now is the perfect time to try to crawl onto my chest just between me and the keyboard. Thanks, Duchess, you’re an enormous help. She Was Not Pleased by being thwarted. However, since Leaving the Bed is clearly not an option, she has settled for Sitting At the End and Glaring. It’s an effective move. Anyway, moving on.) I have a wonderful, supportive circle of friends. Haven’t called them, either, with one exception.
This all ends up meaning that I bottle. Not go to the bottle, although I’m worried that’s what it’ll eventually mean if I can’t get over this fear of the goddamn telephone, which is really just a fear of reaching out, which is possibly a combination of fear of not being self-sufficient, fear of burdening others, and the reliable sense of self-pity. Maybe. There’s also a ton of messy, heaving emotions threatening to treat me like a tsunami does Japan, though. And there’s no wall of whiskey to hide behind for protection from the waters of real emotion. Jesus, feeling my feelings fucking sucks ass. I sat through the entire meeting this evening literally on the very edge of tears; I couldn’t quite convince myself that the precipice could be stepped over, though. It’d be nice if I could claim that I couldn’t cry because these people were pretty much strangers, even though I’d seen some of them once or twice before and even though we have the curiously strong bond of suffering the racking pain of addiction. Nope.
It’s not that I can’t cry. I cry at movies, at TV shows, at commercials, at stories, when someone else is spilling their pain and tears on the floor. (This is not counting drunken tears, of course, which may be another topic altogether.) I’m good with empathetic crying, in other words. I’m terrible at digging up my own guts to throw on the floor and cry over.
“Don’t hold onto it so tight, you’re gonna shatter.” Deep breaths.
(Side note: Now that I’m not sleeping in what amounted to a mini-coma every night, I’ve begun having real dreams again, and I keep telling myself to try and remember them in the morning, to write them down whenever I get up. But then when I wake up, I never remember to remember them long enough to write them down until I’m, say, half way through my shower, by which time, the dream or dreams have usually faded away and trying to recreate it is like trying to grab a handful of colored sand and recreate a sand painting by letting it sift through my clumsy fingers in the wind. There are, of course, the occasional exceptions of a dream or partial details of a dream that stay crystallized in my abused neurons. Granted, I’m not one to read overly much into this or that dream, but dreams are fascinating things, just really cool, and something that I relish about sobriety, and I wish that I could remember more of them.)