(Im)perfect.

Warning: Lots of swears today.

Okey-doke. So just to clarify. If you were wondering, or if you were starting to think or assume anything of the kind… I am not perfect. Nor is my life. Nor is my sobriety. Especially not my sobriety.

To further clarify, the people in my life are pretty amaze-balls and fucking fantastic, but that’s them. I am the lucky recipient and orbiting satellite of said amaze-ball-awesome-sauces such as they are. … On my good days, I’m … okay. You might say ‘nice,’ but not always.

After my unbelievable beautiful and awesome conversations, I just loved life and AllBodies everywhere around me for about 36 hours. However, on Saturday, minutes after I finished rereading my Results Are In post, I looked up at the hubs from my chair and bit his head off. For no reason. In fact, for less than a reason! He was getting the babes ready to go out for a morning adventure, and trying to get us there so that we could eat and not get all monster-munch-hangry at one another, and what did I, the beatific-sober-goddess do in that moment? I bit his head off. Vitriol flew from my mouth. I could feel my scowl take form and extend out from my face with barbs and spikes. My teeth grew into sharp fangs, and I just BIT.

…. Poor guy.

For the rest of the morning, I tried figuring out why I was in such a shit mood all of a sudden, and trying my damnedest to Stop It. I tried caffeine, chocolate, breakfast, alone-time, shoe-browsing… Nothing worked until we had ice cream for lunch. That was nice. And delicious. But really. Poor hubs. And poor babes.

Then yesterday, well, I wasn’t a whole lot better. What a jerk. (Me, I mean.)

I am assuming it was a PAWS moment, maybe sifted in with just a sour surge from my mood stabilizer and trying to get used to that still. I have been a good little soberita. Swear. I have been exercising every day. Taking my meds. Not drinking alcohol (probably my best feature at the mo). Balancing my sober-blog-intake. Doing things other than just being Sober. Etc. But these past few days have felt like the animal inside me is fucking hungry. Grrrr!

Now, here I am. I find myself about to fly into the last week before my show opens (another show), and I can feel the tension and anxiety creeping up my spine and into the base of my neck … Right under my ears. It will be fine. I’ve already put one show up whilst sober, so I know I can do it, but man. I can hear the pour of wine into my glass. Jerkwad. (The aural memory, I mean, not any of You.) I hate even thinking about it. I especially hate thinking I want it at all. I promise you right now I won’t drink. In fact, as I write, I have decided once I’m done with this bloggy-blog-post-it, I am marching into the kitchen and pouring a love-ily bit of ice cold water into that same ol’ stupid glass. It will sound just as nice … Even better! Because it won’t be alcohol. And I will calm the fuck down. And be fine. … And not be a jerk. … To my hubs. … Or to anyone else today. … Including my children. … Or to myself.

Day 35, yippie ki-yay, MotherFucker.

 

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