Day 9

I’ve always lived my life with expectations. I don’t mean measurable expectations necessarily, they aren’t always high or low. I just expect things to go the way I expect them to go.

This probably stems from being a complete brat growing up and constantly getting what I want due to the fact that my family members were legitimately afraid of me. (I threw epic temper tantrums, shocking, I know). I had an expectation of how a certain situation would play out and I would do whatever it took to ensure my expectations were met.

I remember a certain instance when I was probably around five. My Grandma took me to a department store. We were in the kid’s section and I spotted a pair of Little Mermaid pajamas that I wanted. I pointed them out to Grammy, she examined them and decided that I could not have them because they were made out of that itchy polyester material and she knew I wouldn’t wear them because they’d be uncomfortable. (Side note: I want to find the person who chose to make children’s sleepwear out of that torture material and force feed them those PJs). Well, me being an assertive, five-year-old, jerk, would not take no for an answer. After a few seconds of back and forth debate, I hurled my entire body on the ground and threw the most embarrassing, dramatic, full-body tantrum, until Grammy was so sick of standing over my flailing limbs, she gave in. (If you’re reading this Grammy, I’m still really, really sorry). I walked out of the store with a smile on my face and a false sense of accomplishment.

Last night, I had expectations and those expectations weren’t met, and this resulted in the adult version of a temper tantrum (screaming into a pillow).

Long story short, an old friend reached out and invited me to this thing.

Expectation: I’m going to go to this get-together, meet new people, be a lovely, sober, social butterfly and have a great time.

Reality: I freaked out when I realized I wasn’t going to know many people there and couldn’t pre-game with a drink to ease the nerves of being in an unknown social environment, and I flaked at the last second.

Result: I was really, really disappointed in myself and I screamed into a pillow for 5 minutes.

I only calmed down once I understood the lesson learned from my frenzy.

In this new chapter of my life, I can’t have expectations. I used to roll my eyes when my mother said “expectations lead to disappointment”, but right now, that definitely applies.

I’m doing something challenging and it will only be more difficult if I put pressure on myself to measure up to my expectations.

I’ve never done anything like this before, so I don’t know what to expect, and that is ok.

Everything is going to be ok.

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Day 7 and Day 8

I had an “a-ha” moment yesterday. Actually, it was more of an “oh shit” moment…

I’m starting to feel things a lot more.  I feel like a cliché country song admitting to this, but I think I’ve been using alcohol to numb myself.

This epiphany shocked me a little bit. I never remember thinking “I don’t want to feel this, so I’m going to drink”.

I wonder if it was a side effect of how much and how often I was drinking. I didn’t need to think about drinking away my feelings, it just happened that way. Or maybe I’m just in denial about my position on the previously-blogged-about spectrum.

I don’t know when or how the numbing side effects of my drinking started, but I do know I’m beginning to reap what I’ve sewn.

I was getting ready for work yesterday, when out of nowhere I thought “Oh shit. I had a really bad break-up a few months ago”.

You’re probably making the same exact face I made when that thought crossed my mind. My forehead wrinkled and my eyes crossed a bit, as my upper lip scrunched towards my cheekbone, and I thought, “Where did THAT come from?” And then I spent the next 3 minutes holding back tears to prevent crying off some freshly applied mascara.

This break-up happened three months ago. When it happened, everyone around me expressed how shocked they were that I was handling it so “well”. I remember my sister looking at me with this uncertainty, like she wasn’t sure if I was about to explode into a pile of ice cream and Nicholas Sparks’ movies or if her baby sister had finally just grown up into a very mature, emotionally-damaged robot.

It was a passionate, whirlwind romance, ten years in the making and it ended abruptly… via text message, but I seemed fine. I felt fine.

I contributed my lack of tears to my strong, “I am woman hear me roar” attitude and the fact that this guy I thought I loved turned out to be just another moron. “I’ve been in enough bad relationships to know who not to waste my tears on”, or so I thought.

If you were to illustrate my drinking with a line graph, it would start at fairly normal levels in January/February/March of 2014, and then begin a steady increase right around my birthday (April). The summer months would show a more significant escalation, so by the fall, I was really at the height of my habit/addiction/problem/whatever I’m labeling it these days.

That’s when this break-up happened, end of October/early November.

I definitely had a glass of wine the night I got that massive, confusing, final text message. I probably had a few glasses that night, and every night that week and the weeks following, but that was how I had been living for months, so it didn’t feel like I was “drinking my problems away” or trying to numb myself.

Yesterday I realized, it didn’t feel that way because I was already numb.

I anticipate what happened yesterday, will happen a lot more this year. I think Day 8 of my sobriety will include investing in some waterproof mascara.

Day 6

6 days is the longest I went without drinking in 2014.

It was back in July. I remember it well because it was right before my sister moved out of my apartment. In fact, the reason why I drank on day 6 was because it was the day she moved out and I thought we should celebrate.

I wasn’t trying to give up drinking at the time, I was trying to quit smoking, and if you’ve ever been a smoker, you know, the only thing better than a cigarette, is a glass of wine with that cigarette. I thought if I didn’t drink for a while I could kick my smoking habit once and for all.

I’ve struggled with smoking for a long time. It started during my conservatory training when I was 19-years-old. One thing the brochures for acting school don’t tell you, is that EVERYONE smokes at acting school. Seriously. I used to bum Marlboro Lights from my teachers.

I really didn’t think I would get addicted (I know, I sound like a PSA). But, at 27 years old I have tried everything: Chantix, cold turkey, Wellbutrin, hypnotherapy, prayer… I once ate a cigarette because I read online it would make you so sick you’d never want to smoke again. I’m not kidding. I ATE a CIGARETTE.

Hypnotherapy worked for a while. That was probably my most successful attempt at quitting. But, eventually I started craving cigarettes when I was drinking. That’s when I decided that I would only smoke when I was drinking, ironically, that’s also when I started drinking a lot more. As long as I had a glass of wine in my hand, a cigarette was acceptable. So, I always had a glass of wine in my hand, and thus, a new bad habit was formed.

At this point, you have probably noticed, I don’t refer to my drinking habits as an addiction. I don’t identify as an alcoholic. I’ve done a lot of research and thinking and talking about where I am on the addiction spectrum, and I don’t think I got there; to full-on alcoholism. I think I was well on my way, though.

Over the summer, I Googled, “How do I know if I’m an alcoholic”. A few online quizzes popped up and I took about four of them before I realized; I was taking an online quiz to determine if I was an alcoholic. Regardless of what the quiz results were, I was obviously worried about my current lifestyle and the choices I was making. That was my wake-up call, well, part one anyway.

I realized, I may not be an alcoholic today, but I was taking very good care of my bad habit.  Sprinkle in a little family history of addiction, add a dash of “stressful day job”, and it was really only a matter of time before I was in it too deep to find my way out.

Part two of my wake-up call is more spiritual and personal. I briefly mentioned it yesterday. I promise I’ll go into more detail in a post later this week, just let me muster up a little more courage first.

Day 3, Day 4, and now Day 5

I was wonderfully overwhelmed with the response I got from starting this blog. The words of encouragement and love from friends, family, and even some strangers have really, REALLY helped me through the first few days.

I read somewhere that the first four days are the hardest when kicking an old habit or starting a new one. It definitely hasn’t been easy, but I just keep going back to all of the messages I’ve received and it gives me a boost of much needed strength.

I can’t say thank you enough!

Day 4 was the hardest thus far.

For the first three days, my mom was in town, which made the transition into sobriety surprisingly easy. Not only was I distracted with fun, family outings, but I also had someone watching me 24/7. Not just someone, my mother; which, if you know my mother, you know it means I couldn’t have slipped up even if I really, really wanted to (which I didn’t).

Day 4 I found myself awake too early with not a whole lot to do. And that scared me.

One of my biggest fears, with all of this, is getting bored. Doctors and health nuts and Oprah talk a lot about people who eat out of boredom. I’m sure you’ve heard it before too; people who say they are always hungry, when really they just don’t have anything else to do, so they eat. Well, that’s how I am with alcohol. When I’m bored or don’t have anything on the calendar, I drink.

The weekends were always the heaviest drinking days because I had more idle time on my hands. I became a master at losing the better half of a Sunday in bottomless mimosas and American Spirits.

So what did I do instead this Sunday?

I went for a run. I OCD-cleaned my apartment (even the ceiling fans). I took Warner for a long walk. I taught myself how to make sautéed scallops and wild mushrooms. I went to church. I invested in a pound of red licorice. I watched the news. I went to bed at 10pm.

I’d be omitting some truth if I didn’t add “reminisced about the good ol’ weekends” on the list.

Sure, I missed drinking and cleaning, drinking and cooking, drinking and running (just kidding on that last one), but I finally started feeling present in my moments again and that feeling gave me butterflies.

When I went running, instead of focusing on how much my lungs hurt; I focused on how amazing LA’s skyline looked from the top of the mountain.

When I was cleaning, I didn’t forget where I put the Swiffer or accidentally leave some dust on the top shelf.

When I took Warner for a walk, we took our time, we (literally) stopped and smelled the roses.

When I was cooking, I taste-tested everything, and could actually taste it.

When I was in church, I could feel the worship in my toes and I thanked God for putting this challenge on my heart (I’ll touch more on that experience in a later post).

When I went to sleep, I knew I would wake up refreshed and inspired for another sober day.

Yesterday was definitely the hardest day thus far, but it was so rewarding. I was reminded, in a lot of little ways, why I accepted this challenge and how willing and able I am to complete it.

DAY 2

Author’s Note: The title of my very first post is not a typo. I’m on Day 2. This blog and I are a work in progress. I promise my timely blogging will begin progressing soon.

Backstory:  I’ve been in LA for 8 years. I moved out here to be a movie star. I was young and naïve and dreamy, and never had a pessimistic guidance counselor to explain that choosing to be an actor meant choosing to be an unstable, creative, hot mess. It means getting fired a lot, from a lot of different day jobs, waiting tables at three different restaurants four days a week, using your sick days to go on auditions and spending more time on the 405, stuck in traffic, than in the actual casting office. It means being in your late 20’s and still having to occasionally ask your parents for a little help with rent.

It also means the highlight of your day is coming home to a $4 bottle of wine, or two, and some friendly neighbors, who you spend hours swapping war stories with.  Ay, there’s the rub.

To be blunt: I’ve been drinking a lot lately.

At first, I thought, it’s just a social thing. I live in a great apartment and love my neighbors, so we spend a lot of time sitting around a table with drinks. I figured, if they weren’t around, I wouldn’t drink this much.

But, then there were times when they’d be on vacation or working late, and I’d still find myself in the Ralph’s checkout line holding a bottle of chilled Sauv. Blanc and asking for a pack of Marlboro Lights.

Ok. So it’s not just a social thing. I enjoy it. That’s fine. A lot of adults like to drink after a stressful day. It’s normal, right?

That’s the question I started asking myself. Is this normal?

After a lot of soul-searching and prayer and talking to loved ones and talking to myself, I realized, that it isn’t MY normal.

When I think about how I’ve been spending my time, I can see my 8 year-old self, hitting her head against the wall over and over and over again.

I have big dreams and high expectations, and lately, when I feel those dreams are still unreachable or my expectations aren’t being met, I drink about it, and to me, that doesn’t seem like the right way to do life.

SO… I’ve decided to do something drastic…

365 days of sobriety.

Starting now. (Well, technically I started yesterday. I’m a tardy blogger, remember).

Yes, this means:

No drinking. No smoking. No drugs. (Although the drugs part will be easy. I get sea sick in a bathtub, so don’t even get me started on what I think a handful of mushrooms would do to my vestibular system).

I hope by the end of this year, my 8 year-old self will want to give me a high five.