Wolfie whispered in my ear as I passed a mirror tonight. I was laughing at something my husband said and I caught a glimpse of myself. The conversation went like this:
Wolfie (voice flat and small): What are you doing? This isn’t you. You want your life back, don’t you?
Me: Fuck you.
It was a much shorter internal conversation than the maranthon from yesterday. In my life when I am doing the ‘wrong’ thing (something that doesn’t make me happy-usually in the form of bad relationships or friendships) I get this anxious lump in my chest. Tonight, it felt as if something in my subconscious was trying to manufacture that feeling. The feeling of being on the wrong path. But it wasn’t genuine. It tasted like synthetic sugar and felt like cheap polyester. I have been thinking about that other path for an hour or two now. I was so afraid to give up that life. That drunken bourbon/tequila/beer and wine soaked existence. I told myself that it was easy, fun, exciting. It was cool. It was gritty. What a load of bullshit!
I don’t miss it tonight. I don’t miss stumbling around the house. I don’t miss feeling too drunk to brush my teeth or check on my kids. I don’t miss the night sweats or waking in the morning feeling more dead than alive. I gave 20 years of my life to this shit. 20! I started getting high (anything to escape) the summer I was 17 and I am now 37. It is enough. It is too much, but I can’t do anything about that now. I don’t have a fucking time machine… There is only moving forward.
I have been reflecting on surrender and vulnerability lately. I have a hard time with surrender but I am getting closer to understanding its role in all of this. I am afraid of surrender. I am terrified of vulnerability. I have some work to do. I know I am on the right path. Fuck you, Wolfie.