I’m fucked up.
It shouldn’t be a surprise. After all, I am an alcoholic. The thing is, really, it’s not about my addiction at this point.
My alcoholism is but a symptom of a much more sinister problem. It turns out that I also suffer from Major Depressive Disorder. Who’d have fuckin’ thunk it?
Not me. I thought I was pretty normal. Hey, I’m working the steps, seeing a sponsor, hey… fuck you and your goddamn opinion that denies me what I want. Oops. Sorry about that. But hey, I’m sober and this attitude is fine, right?
Not hardly. Being sober for the last 17 months has been both a blessing and a fucking curse. For about half of those months I’ve been in a deep depression, lashing out at the people closest to me, rage chopping trees down, yelling at dogs, threatening my kids…
What the fuck Josh? Why don’t you have a handle on this? Where’s my higher power when I need him? Why doesn’t my fiancee seem to love me anymore? Oh, shit. You don’t have a handle of this because your serotonin is fucked. Your higher power is there, but you don’t see him. Your fiancee took her ring off because you fucking yelled at her too many times. Jesus, man. Pull it together.
You know, I thought I had it together. But misery is not together. The pain is not healing. The steps are moot when you can’t rationally deal with the trauma it dredges up, and in a sober depression those feelings might as well be urges to drink, or at least be a dick to everyone who loves you.
I spent the last month in Intensive Outpatient Therapy, after a nervous breakdown that landed me in the ER. It was my last, best attempt at fixing myself before the alienation of everyone I hold dear cost me everything again.
And I lie here, in my sisters old bedroom, wrapped in a Spongebob blanket, on a mattress that is way too small, because my fiancee and I separated over this drama. And I’m thinking to myself, “I did this. I am the reason I am here. My depression got the best of me.” The dry drunk it brought created pain and misery for the woman I love the most, and I’ve hurt her deeply. Now I get to sit in time out while we decide if it’s even worth trying anymore.
Perhaps it will be. Perhaps she’ll decide it’s not. Whatever her choice, I can’t control it, but I do know what, by the grace of God, I can control.
I can control my feelings. I can control how I will approach tomorrow. I know that just for today I have done my best and that I will try to do better tomorrow.
Just for today I am sober. Just for today I am sleeping in Spongebob sheets. Just for today, I know that my higher power has seen me through, and just for today, I can be okay.