I Went To Rehab And All I Got Was This Rash

That isn't entirely true.  I never got the 'rash' but a few others did. But yes, I went to rehab.  For 30 magnificent days I got to focus on me, taught why my thinking is screwed up and how to actually change my way of thinking. My time there was truly magnificent. Of course there was the rehab drama.  And being new (hopefully I will never be a pro) to the whole rehab thing, this (the drama) is quite normal.  Oh the things you learn. Can you imagine 25 plus people together everyday all day who have a thinking issue?  There was some seriously dark comedy going on there. Raw, unscripted emotional days where we were all trying to just survive for five minutes. I believe it will take me several blogs to go through my experiences, but I can tell you that going to treatment was the best gift I have ever received.  My brother & sister in law and a few friends were the key to me leaving the state and going to Georgia for 30 days.  

Let us start at the beginning. How did I go from relapsing in February to kicking ass to a fast decent into hell on earth? First things first.  I lost my spiritual path. I hoped off onto the self will run riot highway and got in the fast lane.  So quickly I crashed and burned.  Those who know me or read this may wonder 'why in the hell can't she get this whole recovery thing?'.  It isn't a matter of getting recovery for me, it is a matter of practicing what I need to do everyday to stay in recovery, and the list is long.  One day that list will be second nature, but today it is long and arduous.  No way am I complaining, it is just not normal for me to do what I need to do.  Changing everything is no easy task.  Undoing a life time of distorted thinking takes time, vigilance and patients.

Okay, so I had a brilliant idea to go and meet my husband's girlfriend. Yep, you read that correctly and I won't go into details this second, but later I am sure I will as it contributes greatly to my twisted thinking.  Anyway, I thought I should meet this woman. Why? Yeah, that is the question of the century. I don't know why, or at least I don't have a valid reason.  I think I just have this addiction to emotional entanglements.  I am an emotional masochist.  I hate it, but it hurts so good. I have for so long played that victim role while saying I am not a victim, that I just can't tell when I am lying to myself and when I am not.  I justify/rationalize my behavior because I do not know what healthy is most of the time. I just don't know what is good for me.  What I think is good for me is always the wrong choice.  It would kick ass if there was a good decision and bad decision buzzer that went off.  Of course the bad decision buzzer would be some kind of shock impulse. Think the Pavlovian Theory.  Conditioned response. But yeah, those buzzers don't exist.  I can create them over years of time by sober experiences and references, but again, time is a major player in my recovery process. Okay, I go and meet this woman.  Not my best idea.  Go to a two hour meeting and after the meeting I go to the liquor store and by a soda. Nah, I bought me some vodka.  Remember, one MUST have a sense of humor, but in NO way am I making light of what I did and/or my disease. What I do next is part from memory but mostly part from being told by others.  I buy the vodka and drive to a playground as it is becoming dusk.  I remember chugging the vodka and pulling out my bottle of klonopin.  I had a prescription and never abuse them when I am sober, but you put that drink in me and all bets are off.  I remember counting out at least five milligrams and throwing the little white pills in my mouth, tilting my head back feeling as if my neck would break and letting the vodka wash them down my throat while my esophagus burned.  I didn't care.  Death was being beckoned and I was not afraid. I poured more booze down my throat until I felt that numbness take physical affect.  I may not have felt the booze burning anymore but I was waiting for an emotional genocide to occur.  I was drunk but in the worst emotional pain and had absolutely no hope. No hope anything could change.  No hope anything would get better.  I had nothing. The cold emptiness was still there but I was drunk.  Nothing changed.  I did not feel any hope or relief from drinking.  Yes, that is what I wanted but booze doesn't provide relief or any sense of normalcy anymore.  It doesn't work and it hasn't for a very long time.  I knew/know this but I picked up that drink anyway.  I picked it up because I am powerless over alcohol and my life had become unmanageable. I drink when I don't want to drink.  I drink when I know in my wise mind that everything will stay the same yet be 100xs worse because I drank.  When I am in that place of no hope, I don't care that everything will get worse.  How can a person who knows that a drink will kill them still drink?  Only if you are an addict can you understand that question. I continued to drink and take more pills.  At some point I remember thinking I wanted to go to a church and pray.  While at the playground I vaguely remember texting with my brother and sister in-law.  I don't remember calling a very dear friend of mine and rather grotesquely vocalizing my wish to die and why.  I did call him and I basically gave him a verbal suicide note.  By the grace of God, I made it to that church. I say the grace of God because I drove in a blackout.  I have absolutely no memory of driving.  I am paralyzed by sickness just thinking that I drove in a blackout.  I had never driven in a blackout.  It is by the grace of God I did not kill anyone or myself.  The elevator falling sensation is taking over me while I type.  Horrified.  Once at the church I drank more and took more pills (so I am told).  A friend of mine called and kept me talking until they found me.  They were just going to take me somewhere to sleep it off until they saw the klonopin.  At that point I tried cramming more into my mouth but this friend hit my hand so the pills went everywhere.  At this time my friend knew I had to go to the hospital.  Another friend was called and they called rescue.  It was written down that I drank a liter and a half of vodka and took 16 milligrams of klonopin. My stomach was pumped.  I came to at some point the next day in the psychiatric emergency room in the hospital.  When I came to, I wasn't sure if I was dead or not.  Truly I had no idea.  I remember looking around at the white walls, dim lights and smelling that institution smell.  I for sure had died.  I looked down at my chest and on my scrub top was blood.  What was the blood from?  I felt my i.v. immediately and it was sore and uncomfortable. Was the blood from the iv? I don't know.  Once I realized I was alive and in a hospital I was terrified.  I was not aware of much other than I knew I had not wanted to live and somehow I had failed at dying.  I was not grateful that day. I was mad that I made it and was breathing.  What was to follow is very blurry also.  There are several days that are vague at best and quite frankly I lost more time.  Not knowing, not having any memory of my actions and decisions felt as if I was in a black hole.  
My heart hurts.  I need to take a break from telling my story.  I needed to write and may do more tonight. For now I need a cookie.