He told me I was beautiful, and I followed him like a love-sick fool. I knew what I was doing was wrong, but I couldn’t help it. He made me feel free, sexy, and very beautiful. I hadn’t been told these things in a very long time. Like most online relationships, there are connections made. Those connections are never even. Someone always cares and feels more. I thought I loved him, and I would have changed to be what he wanted. Had we ever gotten together in real life I would have been happy for a short time. All of my problems would have resurfaced though, because I never dealt with them. I would have been back where I was before, alone and fucked up.
My writer left me on a cold night in January. I never saw his face or heard his voice. But I read his words and connected with the sadness in his life. He made me care for him and then he was gone. On Facebook, I would read comments that he’d leave for other women. I would get incredibly jealous. I wanted to caution those women, and tell them not to fall for it. Don’t be like me, a sad and middle-aged woman drinking by herself in the dark. Mourning for a man that had no intention of loving her.
I tell you the story not to blame him. I was just as much to blame. Probably more so. I tell it to make you realize that the guilt and shame were triggers for me to start drinking again.
After our last online exchange, I lost it. I drank an entire magnum of wine and bawled my head off in the darkness of my living room. After I drained the bottle, I could still ‘feel’, so I continued to drink. Kahlua, straight from the bottle. I was obliterated and liberated. Or so I thought. I crawled to the bathroom because I had to pee. Somehow, I managed to complete the simple task of urinating without falling off of the commode.
My body was rebelling and I thought I was going to throw up. Gravity and alcohol pulled me from a seated position and I fell to the floor. I smashed my chin on the cold porcelain bowl. Roger Darling was roused from a sound sleep by the commotion. He was screaming at me and did everything he could to help me to bed. I fell again, and smashed the bridge of my nose on the door jamb leading to the foyer. Roger was convinced I had killed myself. The only thing that saved me from really hurting myself was being drunk.
Finally in bed and covered up, I passed out. I would do no more damage to myself or Roger, that night. There were plenty more nights of being drunk. More black outs. More drama. I’m so disgusted with myself, but I’m working through it.
After reading Daan’s post, I realized that one of my triggers was guilt. I even wrote a post about it on Rendezvous with Renee. I also realized that I was tired of running from the truth. I’m a drunk, an alcoholic, a lush or whatever else you want to call it.
I went back to Alcoholics Anonymous. There, I finally feel at home. The group members and I share. We are mothers, wives, women, free spirits, tortured souls, and drunks. Fortunately, we are also much more than that. In that hour, at that table, we are all equal. After we feed and purge our souls, we are more complete. I carry those members with me and I remember the Serenity Prayer that we repeat at the close of our meetings. Sometimes repeating that prayer is the only way I get through my day, sober.
*Roger Darling knew about The Writer, after the fact, of course. I could never keep some things from him. He’s been my partner for 24 years, and knows me better than I know myself. I will never reveal who my Writer was. It was a truly profound experience, and I will never regret it.*