Site icon Something Worth Fighting For: Life Goes On

If only drinking could fix it…but it can’t.

Lately, I have been feeling particularly trapped and defeated in this seemingly impossible life of mine. Everything that I’m currently going through and having to deal with feels incredibly…..fragile, handle with care, if you will.
I don’t want to talk about it, because frankly, I suck at verbally expressing myself on any given day, and I don’t want to write about it because it feels too difficult, or because I’m worried about how it might sound.

The thoughts that I’m battling are…intense. I feel trapped and hopeless and honestly just kind of shitty. I want to give in to the demons telling me that it’s okay to drink. I’m losing the part of me that was up for the fight, the part that had hope, and held the belief for myself.

My husband, very unknowingly and unintentionally, has become a massive trigger for me. As you all may know, I have a not so insignificant history (both recent and in the more distant past) with sexual assault, or rape, or whatever the fuck you want to call it. Honestly, dealing with that fact alone accounts for probably at LEAST 75% of why my drinking is what it is, why it became the absolutely all consuming beast that it did.

I drank to be able to function the way a “normal” person could. Except, I still couldn’t. The thoughts still took control, and my body froze. My mind locked onto every single bad memory that exists. Every fucked up, familiar feeling….

This isn’t exactly a new issue.
Before the events of the past year took place, I was already insanely fucked up in this way. For 3 years, I was in a pretty bad sexually (amongst other things) abusive relationship. When that was over, just a few months later, I found myself to be in another situation where someone forced himself on me.

And it fucked me up. I’ve never been okay, and I’ve never worked through it. Any of it.

But I did drink through it. And if I just drank enough…drank enough to where I honestly had no memory of if the next day….drank enough to the point that if I closed my eyes, I couldn’t see anything at all, let alone the bad memories…I convinced myself that was the way through.

And I won’t lie…it’s fucked up, but I wasn’t wrong. It did help. Sure, it made everything else worse, but I could get though those moments. I could be the wife that my husband deserved. I could be with him without thinking about someone else hurting me.

(In case it needs clarifying, my husband is not one of those people. He has never hurt me what way, and he’s always been respectful of me. His only offense is willingly and knowingly giving me alcohol because he damn well KNOWS that that’s going to make things a lot better and easier for him in that sense. But he is not the bad guy here.)

Being pregnant…obviously, I haven’t had anything to drink in all this time. In 46 days…it’s just been me. On my own, dealing with this. And holy shit, has it brought to light all the fucking issues I’ve been so masterfully drinking myself into denial about.

The past 46 days have been bad. They’ve been hard, and it’s caused problems. For me, and me alone, it has cased problems. See, part of my incredibly fucked up head, is that I need to feel wanted. Even if I do NOT want you (my husband) to touch me, I still need to feel like he wants me. And it makes me feel like shit, and like I’m doing something wrong, or like I’m not good enough, if he doesn’t. Or if he isn’t trying to be with me, or something like that.

Ugh. This shit is so hard for me to talk about, you don’t even know. I’m the kind of fucked up that I cringe when I have to say the word “sex” out loud, and even just typing it, it makes me feel weird.

I know I’m a mess. I know I’m fucked up. But I just do NOT know how to deal with this! And I’m not even talking about the most recent fucked up events. I can’t yet. It just…I don’t know. It all just makes me feel disgusting.

I don’t know what to do if I can’t drink. It’s as simple as that. I need to fucking drink to deal with this, and I feel like I’m going to actually explode if I don’t. I need these feelings to go somewhere and the only place that I know where to put them is at the bottom of a bottle.

I’m beginning to question if I can do this, If I even should do this. Maybe I was wrong, maybe I’m not strong enough to stay sober. I just thought it would be easier, I really did.

But right now, there’s a bottle of Kraken under my bed, and I swear, it’s like it’s just screaming my name, telling me that it needs me, too.

I wish I felt stronger, I wish I felt safer. Even in my own head, I don’t feel safe.

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