Hey, you. (Yes, please do read that exactly how you think You should.)
I’m not sure if you know this, but then again you probably do. I struggle a lot with vulnerability and honesty, and with actually being open with how I feel. You know this. Honestly, you know me the best out of probably anyone. You know what I’m saying when I literally say nothing at all.
You know what I’m saying when I’m lying to your face telling you that “I’m fine, I always am”. Actually. If you read one of my most recent posts, “I wonder if you hear me”, you’re the exception to that post. I know you, out of everyone, hears everything I’m saying and everything I’m not.
I haven’t seen you in person in…what, 3 and a half years? Something like that. But that doesn’t matter. It never has. I’ve known you since first grade, and you’re the only person where distance doesn’t seem to matter.
But let’s get to the point. You’ve always been there for me, and I have always tried to be there for you. No matter what.
I’ve apologized for a lot of things over our 20 YEAR friendship. And I’m positive I’ve apologized for this night as well.
But let me do a better job at it.
That night, I don’t know when it was. I don’t know what month it was, I don’t know what day of the week…I don’t know any of that. Honestly, I don’t want to. I could figure it out, but it pains me so much to think about.
That night should have been my rock bottom. And in nearly every way…it truly was. I don’t deserve to be alive after that night.
I’ve spoken about this night a few times in very vague terms. But make no mistake about it. I owe my life to you and my husband on that night.
I don’t remember the problem, I don’t know what I was upset about, but I don’t think that really matters.
I’d hinted to you a few times that I was struggling with alcohol, but I don’t think it was until that night that you truly knew what I meant.
I called you. Late at night. That alone was enough to give you a huge red flag. I never call anyone. Ever. You answered, or maybe you called me back. Either way, we talked. For a long time.
I wanted to die, and I think I was pretty set on it. We talked for a few minutes, or maybe it was hours. But a bottle of vodka later, and I was not okay.
I’m sure you felt helpless from all those states away. I know you talked to my husband, but I’ll never know how it felt from your perspective. From either of your perspectives.
I’m sorry that I was awful. I’m sorry if I scared you. I am so sorry that I kept you awake, burdened you with my bullshit…all of it.
You didn’t deserve that.
I don’t know what you know about that night, and shit. I don’t even know much about that night. But I know that you and him talked about getting me into rehab.
I’m doing a lot better now, but you’ll never know how much I agreed with you both. How much I desperately wanted to go into rehab. I knew alcohol was winning the war against me. And I knew I couldn’t do it on my own.
Ultimately, reality won out. And where my nighttime struggles and demons with alcohol took hold….my daytime priorities prevented me from getting the help I wanted. Needed. (Is this where I thank my therapist for dealing with me for so long? Hah.)
That was the worst night of my life. And you and I both know that I have had A LOT of shit nights.
I should have died. This apology goes out to my husband as well…but he already got his. He had to deal with the physical disaster that I was. He had to wrestle with his conscience of if he should bring me to the ER or not. He had to basically nurse me back to life.
We all have our bad nights…or days we wish to NEVER relive. That night is mine.
I was struggling in absolutely every way possible. I wanted to die. I’m pretty sure I attempted to that night. You don’t drink a bottle of vodka by accident.
I shouldn’t have called you, I shouldn’t have brought you into my mess. I’m sorry for all of it. I know you’re there for me, I never doubt that.
But I can’t stop feeling guilty about that night. It wasn’t your problem. I wasn’t your problem. And I’m so sorry for all of it.
That night was my rock bottom. Or, like I said, it should have been. But I wasn’t done yet. Not for a while.
I’m doing better now. I promise I am. I have a long fucking way to go…but I’ll never have a night like that again.
You don’t know how bad it was. I honestly should have died. And I don’t know why I didn’t.
He said I had a seizure, I know I had alcohol poisoning…it should have been the end. Of everything. But it wasn’t.
Alcohol is still my biggest demon. It convinces me that it’s there for me when I know that that’s a lie.
I have a lot more to overcome and a lot more to deal with. I’ll have to admit that life is painful. I have to admit that life is hard and that I need help with it. I’ll have to start admitting that I’m sad, and that I’m not okay.
And I’ll have to start doing that when I’m sober.
Because I just can’t keep using alcohol as a crutch. As the only way I know how to feel.
I’ve joked about it often…how I have no “worst day of my life” because so many of them have been shit.
There’s no joke or sarcasm about it now. Short of one of my kids dying (and let’s not include my birth son and all the pain that that is…) that night will likely remain my answer for “the worst night of my life” for years to come.
I hope nothing is ever worse than that night.
And, again….I’m so sorry that you had to witness it. But thank you for being there. I knew you would be, and I needed you so badly. As sorry as I am and always will be, I also recognize that you likely played a big role in why I’m still alive today.
I remember nearly none of our conversation. Maybe you do, maybe to don’t….but I know I wasn’t okay. In a very serious way.
I know I’ve said it before…I know you know how I feel about it. But I just don’t feel like I’ve thanked you…or apologized to you…enough. For all of it.
You’ve helped me through a lot over …well, a lifetime. I’d like to think I’ve offered you the same, helped you somewhat as much. I know I’m always there for you, I think you know that too.
I just hope you know that I haven’t forgotten. That night is a pit in my stomach whenever I think about it. And it makes me hesitate when there are big things to tell you,..because you’ve already done so much.
Not sure if I’ve said this in a while…but like I just fucking love you. In the most genuine way. I know you know me, and that is the most meaningful thing anyone can do. Just know me. And I know you too. (Also…read that whatever you want to 😊)
Sorry. Sarcasm has to exist somewhere within the serious.
Well…this is long now. And my husband (who for some reason still loves me) is probably waiting for me to go to bed.
But this has been on my mind a lot lately. Maybe because I’m working through some other incredibly big shit and you’re like…the only one who knows even a part of it. Or maybe because I just want you to know how much I care. About you and about how you’re doing and just…
Can you fucking know that it’s not one sided? Like, I know you know. But can you please KNOW?
I know you might never see this. And that’s okay. I get that. But also, if you ever do see this….
What’s up!!!! Hey I’m feeling awkward as hell right now baring my fucking soul. Let’s eat some fucking Mac and cheese and pretend none of this ever happened 😬. Or also we can talk about it. That’s cool too.
Well shit. Anyway.
Life’s fucked. Sorry bout that night. Glad to not be dead ☠️
Okay I’m sorry. Sarcasm is the only way I know how to life.
Thanks though…for real. Love ya, kid.