Raven

Drinking Diaries

Drinking Diaries: Pavlov

When did “drinking” become the key to fun? When did we decide if we are going to have a nice time or a nice meal then there would NEED to be alcohol. When we were 7yrs old what did we need to play? When we ate as children were we looking for the glass of wine to compliment our meal, or anything other than what was on our plate? Remember being burdened by having to sit down and eat? Remember playing on a jungle gym, swimming, running around outside and Mom was like “Get in here and EAT!” and all you wanted to do was keep playing? But then, at some point food, became the playing.

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Drinking Diaries: it starts in the dark

it starts in the dark like a blind women feeling her way around an unfamiliar room. Uncertain, afraid, alone. The dark is dark. Attempting to use old sensory tools are ineffective. This territory is new, you are new. nothing is as it was. The only way to step forward is out of desperation. it must be the only option, exhausted other options to exhaustion. adhere to this option like the only oxygen left, otherwise the lights flip back on, the door closes, the well treaded paths reveal themselves instantly and there is a drink in your hand, in your gut, on your breath. it’s back.

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Drinking Diaries: For Good

Chapter 1 and a half. No one tells the story very loudly. I mean, I never knew the rest of the story or how it unravels, i never watched anyone live a sober life long enough to see the “game changer” shit. So, I feel it could be “of interest” to you or anyone if you are considering putting down the glass for good. Fucking scary, i know, just that “for good” part turned me off so big in the negotiating days. That is the part that puts the deal off …. since it seems so severe and absolute. But, I am here to tell you.

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Of course i am different then i was before

Of course i am different then i was before. i drank to stop worrying about stuff, so now, interestingly, i don’t worry more i just realize what i was worried that i would worry about is nothing to worry about. the ghost under the bed was the cat. the fear was all for not. i had, like, a constant undercurrent of shame just bc at some level i always felt shame for having drank last night.

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Drinking Diaries: Time keeps on slip’n slip’n slip’n into the future.

Slip’n forward, indeed. Whether it “seems” to be going fast or slow, it is definitely ticking away. There is no stopping time, although, sometimes it “seems” like time has stopped for a moment or a “spell” when we are under some sort of spell of time, sometimes euphoric, sometimes horrific.

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Drinking Diaries: Drinking and the "Finish Line Effect"

This, I did. I didn’t know I did it, all the freeeeeaaakken time, but I did it all the time. Time pushing, racing, rushing those sweet little chatters along. “Bye, bye, Yo… I gotta go!” (drink). I didn’t say out loud “Please remove yourself from my presence kind ladies and sirs, you see, I must open a bottle of cheap red wine within the next 20 minutes or something bad will happen to me, or even you”. But I did think it. I wanted my reward for winning, (i.e finishing another day). I wanted my participation metal for showing up.

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I was Wrong

I WAS WRONG. So many things I believed about myself, turns out I was completely wrong. I BELIEVED These as facts for the past 20 years.

1). I am a bad sleeper, I wake up 6-8 times a night, totally light sleeper and I need to stay in bed 10-12 hours to try to get 6 hours of sleep since I am up so much.

2) I am hot blooded, I am always hot. I can’t wear sweaters and would never sleep in pajamas since I sweat all the time. I burn up even in the winter.

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Drinking Diaries: The Conflict

Drinking Diaries: no one can see the conflict, feel it or know it’s there under a skin tight, slightly expensive, tone-showing Saturday night outfit. I would have never suspected a conflict in ME (just looking at me from the outside)… if i didn’t know me, personally or hell, even if I did know me personally, intimately, even. No one sees the conflict that is in there. i can’t see yours either.

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Drinking Diaries: Monday Mornings

Monday Mornings used to GROWL and HISS at my yoga, but not anymore. Thank you A.A., Raven Yoga, Recovery 2.0 all my sweet people who just make this way of life so damn worth it. I am never going back to hating Mondays, or Sunday mornings or whatever day ended up on the other side of drinking. Every time I picked up that glass of wine I was picking up that dread, that suffering that was going to accompany the pleasure. I thought I would miss the pleasure, I identified so much to it, I thought it was my “thang”- I was wrong.

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Drinking Diaries: I am a hoarder.

I am a hoarder. As in, I stash, collect, store, pack-rat and acquire more than I can use at any one time. This is apparently an effort to have “enough” when there isn’t some available. Figures, since I was raised in the Depression. As in, my mom was depressed. She was a sad women, and blamed it on being “without enough money to have all the happiness money can buy,” (she believed it). She made sure we knew there wasn’t enough to go around, we had to ration.

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