I’m sitting in the bathroom, basically locking myself in solitary confinement while I type on my phone. I’m not hiding from my kids, no, that would be cliché and no different from what I do every day. Hiding is my norm, but tonight I am hiding from something a little more dangerous and harder to avoid.
Tonight I huddle in the bathroom and hunker down in my safety bunker because I need to prove to myself that I can go a day without drinking alcohol.
Sounds like borderline addict behavior yes?
Which is why I must sit here tapping on my phone, because standing in the kitchen nervously unwrapping dessert after dessert wasn’t helping me win out the fight with habits and cravings, neither was it helping me fit into a pair of pants. Fall is coming, not that I want to feel confined to the fashion industry’s fascist buttons and oppressive skinny jeans, damnit.
Do you ever try and tell yourself that you can’t have something? And then you obsess over having that thing because now you know you can’t have it and wanting what you can’t have feels so desperate and thrilling?
I never do that with wine.
I’m about to drop an atomic over share bomb:
I drink every single day. Not like, a French affair with baguettes on white linens and Cabernet among candles and laughter.
Like, stressed out hair pulling, oh shit, today was hard, these kids wear down my strength and will power. It’s 5 pm now! Socially acceptable happy hour!
Oh man, my glass is empty already? Well the kids are done in the bath and it’s bedtime anyways!
And then obviously there’s:
Yay! Goodnight munchkins! Kiss kiss!
Mommy is going to go be alone and watch educational programs about indigenous housewives.
Every night. It’s not even a cute routine. It’s a full blown ritual, minus a goat sacrifice. There’s never been a night when I skipped it. Except for pregnancy. There’s variations though, sometimes I don’t have number 3, or sometimes I start past the kids bedtime and I only have one glass, and then it’s easier to justify, but being honest, because truly there is nothing left to lose, I drink 3 glasses most nights.
Judge me. I deserve it. I’m probably an alcoholic. The bright side is that I’m self aware, in control of my functions and faculties and I never drive or go out or start bull shit fights with my husband. I’m like, the happiest, mellow drinker ever.
Which is why I keep it up every day and ended up in the bathroom terrified to go out there, past the kitchen, past the wine that is so smooth and fun and delicious.
I’m smart enough to know that doing something every day and struggling to break the cycle is a good indication that I need to do exactly that. And it’s hard and I do not like it. But maybe, maybe, if I get past tonight, I can get to the weekend and have Saturday wine and tell myself, “Hey Chrissy, you need to chill girl. Wine is awesome, and unless you want to end up in rehab or dancing on the table, you’d better scale your shit back to a reasonable level, because 3 drinks a night is a fuckton. And that’s a real measurement.”
Coincidentally I woke up today, like every other day and said, “girl, you’re going to eat carrots again and quit stuffing Frito’s in your mouth hole all day. Health matters!”
And then I ate two magic bars. Because it’s like wine. If I can’t have it it will be all I want.
There’s probably truth in something I heard before, that things aren’t a problem until you make them a problem.
But that is coming from a woman locked in her bathroom trying to avoid her own bad behavior.
Best to start addressing it now.
The blogger locked in her bathroom gaining ten pounds.