Even when I was in the absolute worst stage of unabashed drinking and irregular, unhealthy eating habits, very little if anything could have pushed me to seek recovery any sooner than I did.
Those who love me worked tirelessly in the effort to convince me I needed help. Each gesture or suggestion was met with resistance, denial and deflection. Those caring and compassionate individuals had all but prepared themselves to receive the dreaded phone call I’d finally succumbed to the disease of addiction.
The more people tried to persuade me of my destruction, the more my distance from them widened. I wasn’t ready to stop. I liked being able to decide for myself when, where and how much I engaged in what I believed was pure merriment. I’d perfected my silent rationalization to slip into the haze of too much alcohol with little food. When I was in the state of nothingness, life’s emotional ups and downs didn’t matter anymore. I cherished my ability firmly and sternly control what I put my mental energy into and what was erased. As long as I kept my booze supply up and my weight down, all was well in the world. And oh boy, did I love the “high” I felt when the deception, manipulation and lies all fell into place.
Until they didn’t.
When I finally found myself sitting across the desk of an intake counselor at a substance abuse treatment center I still was clinging to the belief I could one day drink again and eat as I saw fit. I vividly remember the woman asking me how much alcohol I drank each day and my response of “oh, not that much” was quickly deflected when she held up my liver count report. I just wasn’t ready to stop believing I could run the show and direct the participants....