Tea-ed out, chocolated out and sleep deprived. Didn’t bother to go to bed until 2am because I thought what was the point in tossing and turning for hours. Turned out to be a smart idea. I fell asleep soon after getting to bed. Woke up this morning though wanting to sleep more. My face says tired. My hair says brush me. I ignore them both and go out.
I skipped the gym today. And I’m okay with that. Guilt is absent. I’m giving myself a break. I’m being kind to myself. That said, I really should have brushed my hair before going out. Too late now. I’m home again.
I need to buy more tea and chocolate if I am going to survive the holiday season. Yes. Need. To remain sober I need to have distraction. I have been drinking copious amounts of tea. I have found a tea I like and I’m going to go crazy and buy the lot. It’s not a popular tea. Pomegranate. I hope they have it in stock.
Sweet craving are the norm for those that go sober. It’s to be expected. For me, the one with the sweet tooth, I hope that I don’t balloon out to greet the wind.
The hours between 8 and 10 in the evenings are my witching hours. Beware the sweet tooth monster during those times and you can make it through the night. Otherwise watch out and reap the wrath of the monster.
Today I feel uneasy. Why? I upset someone with my own stupid words. If I could take it back I would but I can’t. It is too late. The words escaped. They are gone. They are not forgotten.
Perfection is not who I am. I don’t claim to be or aim to be perfect. I would like to feel a little less stupid today. All I can do is forgive myself. Get over it and try to be better next time. Dwelling on it will not improve the situation or my mood. Dwelling on it makes everything worse.
Moving on. I am trying with an uneasiness in my stomach. Or my big toe. Where ever my feelings are supposed to be. I don’t know.
Living sober is a challenge. Today I feel it heavier than other days. I gobbled chocolate yesterday like it was a feast. Did I need so many? Does anyone need chocolate? Of course not. I wanted one, then two then one of each kind, then another. Written down on paper it looks gluttonous. Because it was!
Moderation. Remember. That is why we are writing this. Because I cannot moderate myself. I do not want to substitute chocolate for alcohol. That’s like ripping a bandage off and wrapping a marshmallow over the wound with plastic wrap as a replacement. Not that I’ve ever tried doing that ever.
Being kind to oneself is for everyday not just special occasions. The little things count. A cup of tea. A bath. A book. A film. A time to write thoughts. A log fire. A walk. Time spent with a loved one. Time spent with a pet. A song. A smile. A laugh. A nap. Breathe.
I am who I am.
I love who I am today.
I love me as I am.
Did I expect to feel fantastic right away? Admittedly, yes.
It didn’t happen. NO.
Should I be surprised? No.
It took years of habit to drink alcohol and use it as a crutch to feel relaxed and good in my own skin. So really I have ripped off a plaster and the wound is exposed. It doesn’t heal right away. It needs fresh air, tenderness and time. Time…
When a physical wound is treated there are possible trips to the doctor, stitches if necessary. Cautions of what not to do. Treatment of the area. Rest and recovery. It’s a universal procedure. Seek treatment if you cannot heal yourself. But with mental health it is not treated as the same thing. There is a disconnect between the physical and the mental within our bodies. Or at least in the West. There is so much not understood and with this comes taboo and stigma and fear of the unknown.
Talking about yourself to strangers in a group setting brings up anxiety of group work from my school days. Did I like talking out in class. No. Did it make me feel comfortable? No. Were we encouraged to voice our opinions? No. Public speaking is not a quality my society excels. We tend to not blow our own horns. We are humble and meek. Or we used to be. The influx of American reality shows has sparked a demand for “me me me” and instant gratification for a few moments in the limelight. This is not reality though.
The thought of going to an AA meeting does not match me or my personalty. I cannot do it. The thought of going to a therapist does not match me or my personalty. I don’t believe in spending hundreds of dollars on my feelings, talking about me to a stranger is nonsense. Most of the therapists go into study to understand themselves better. Good for them. But for someone to heal or improve doesn’t that make the therapist redundant? If the therapist is not needed anymore then their income from that patient stops, so how does the relationship end? It’s unhealthy. Sure there must be some morally ethical therapists out there. And there must be some good ones out there too. After all this is just one opinion.
Reading and writing are my therapy: my path to understanding myself better and developing a better version of myself. Rest and relaxation. Kindness to oneself is key.