Under the Sea

I am a liar.  A big fat one.  Last night I told my spouse a huge lie and I’m sick to my stomach about it.  She asked me about something in the past and I flat out denied it and went on to weave a quick story that wasn’t even remotely true.  I watched myself as if I were watching a Lifetime movie in slow motion.  After three months of work–steps 1-3, reading the BB, going to meetings, hearing the stories, reading spiritual books, spending hours with my sponsor, actually SEEING that this whole process really does shake the character defects out of you, I “bwovved” right past it all at 90 mph.  It didn’t matter.  It would have been worse if she knew the truth–at least that’s what my mind was telling me.

So, I spent the rest of the night in utter hell.  Had nightmares and woke with a headache as bad as if I had had 4 bottles of Lake Country White.  Was it worth it?  Well, NO, of course.  Should I have come clean right away?  Absofrigginlutely.  Then why didn’t I?  The only thing I can come up with is that I am still an alcoholic.  Sober, yes.  But not yet recovered.

Step four is coming at me probably sometime in the next week or so.  And we all know what’s after that.  I honestly don’t know if I can handle it.  I am powerless over my lying.  It still continues to grip and wrangle me sideways.  I hear myself but I can’t stop.  And leads me nowhere but to the deep, dark, dungeon of destruction.  But according to my still-pickled brain it is not nearly as bad as if the person I am lying to were to find out the truth.  How fucked is THAT?

I know (intellectually) that I am new to this game.  I understand that I should give myself a break and accept that I’ve only done the first three steps so how could I possibly be good at this thing yet.  But it doesn’t matter.  I’m still in hell.  Somewhere in the recesses of my mind I honestly believe that if I were  to tell the absolute truth that I would be annihilated.  Somewhere in my past I learned that if I told the truth I would die–or something like that.  It’s the only explanation I can come up with.  WAIT.  That is probably a lie.  A justification.  An excuse.  It’s probably more like I don’t tell the truth because I’m a lazy sack of shit and don’t want to feel the slightest bit of discomfort, ever.

So, on I go.  Carrying this 50lb weight on my shoulders for another day because I don’t know what else to do and I’m terrified of the alternative.  This disease is not just about substance abuse.  The drinking (for me) was just a by-product.  Its really like a giant, slimy, 8 limbed, evil sea monster that attached itself to me a long, long, time ago.  Its tentacles have reached into every aspect of my being.  I am riddled with fear of what will happen to me if those tentacles are removed…will I bleed out?  It’s all I’ve ever known.  I’ve come this far and lived…what will happen if this monster is taken from me?  What if it has been holding me together all along?  I feel like I’ll collapse and disintegrate like an old piece of drift wood once the barnacles are removed.

Perhaps I should call my sponsor.    

Author: soberyoginow

I am a 56 year old yoga instructor who chooses not to drink alcohol any more.

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