folding into myself

searching for relevance

seeking the quiet

which is never found within

exhausted and spent

with nothing to show

no trophies of pleasure

no martyr of sacrifice

hollow with an echo

hello hello hello


Two Years Sober

It’s been two years since the end of my first relapse. First and only, I’d say, except I can’t predict the future.

Two years ago I became belligerently drunk at a party and, when my boyfriend couldn’t stand me anymore, I was dropped at my sister’s house to recover. I drank myself into alcohol poisoning instead.

That weekend is important for me to remember. It’s important to remember what happened the last time I made the mistake of thinking I could control my drinking through good intention and force of will. It’s important to remember that, though it took a year to get there, I eventually became the out-of-control, violent and angry drunk I’d been before.

That weekend, after a blacked out Saturday night (the recounted stories of which are still embarrassing) I woke up and started on a stout 6-pack. Old school Seana. After my boyfriend dropped me at my sister’s in frustration, I started on another. I drank all day, moving on to the liquor she kept on top of her fridge. Rum and coke. Rum and a splash of coke. Rum. Sleep. Wake up. Drink. I called in sick. I talked to my boyfriend, told him I was going to have a strict two drink rule moving forward. Eventually, I ended up back at his house, vomiting every 45 to 60 seconds, sometimes every two minutes if I was lucky. Drinking water just to be able to throw something up because the dry heaving hurt so bad. I spent hours like that, while my boyfriend took care of me. I started telling him, and others, that I wasn’t going to drink for a year. I don’t imagine they believed me, I barely did.

But, thanks to the ten months I’d spent in rehab three years earlier, my eyes opened that weekend and I saw my addiction for what it was. I realized I am an alcoholic. I’d never thought that before. I’d gone to rehab to recover from a cocaine addiction, not alcohol. I thought I could control alcohol. I was wrong.

And so, as realization hit, I told everyone that I was done entirely. I highly recommend being very transparent in the beginning of sobriety. Telling the world clearly and definitively that you have an addiction and are getting clean creates a useful web of accountability. I told people I realized I had relapsed, that I was an alcoholic and I was done drinking. And, so far, I have been. I have not had a drink in two full years.

The boyfriend in that story
is now my husband, we celebrated our first year of marriage a couple of weeks ago. Together we share a perfect baby girl and a house with a white picket fence. We have exciting goals and plans for the future. It would seem that life is back on track, like that little year-long relapse didn’t actually happen.

Which is why it’s so important to remember that it did. I got comfortable in my sobriety, overly confident in myself, and lax about self-protection, and it led to a relapse that could have ended a lot worse.

It’s especially important to remember my history on this, the second anniversary of sobriety, because this is when I relapsed the first time. I had my first drink, a Guinness, almost two years to the day after getting sober the first time. I entered rehab in March 2008 and I had my first drink in March 2010.

As though my addiction also knows this anniversary, and the ease with which I failed to make it through the first time, I have been consumed with thoughts of substances. Pondering bottles of wine in the grocery store, craving the burn of a cigarette, eyeing my sister’s mimosa at a shower, absently wishing for a reputable dealer as I glance at my postbaby body in the mirror; my addiction is everywhere these days.

I see it. I know it’s there. Life goes on. I drink my kombucha in a wine glass the way I did in the beginning, and I leave an event if I need to. I shared my cravings with my husband, my sister, now with all of you. I do not know the future, it’s true, but I know this moment, and I have some pretty clear vision of the next. And the next.

And I know that when enough of these moments line up we’ll be here again, except we’ll be celebrating anniversary number three.

See you there!

Everything I Asked For

Before my daughter was born, I prayed for and over her daily. I prayed that she would be strong and healthy, that she would be smart and curious, and that she would be full of joy.

I did not pray that she would sleep, that she wouldn’t cling, or that her need would only equal what I wanted to handle. In the greater scheme of life, those mundanities lacked import.

I remind myself of this as we struggle our way through this latest developmental leap meets wonder week meets teething meets learning to crawl and cruise.

She is strong enough to pull her body up, to support herself on her own feet; strong enough to practice the fine art of motion while laying in bed. She is curious to see and know the world; she is curious enough to be captured by the restless wonder of it even after the lights are dimmed at night. She is healthy enough to be meeting her milestones one after the other, an often arduous practice that keeps her awake. She is smart enough to already have learned a handful of words, to know animal sounds, to comprehend instead of just see the world around her; she is smart enough to practice these important skills at night when the rest if the world quiets. She is joyful; trusting that her needs will be met, that her development will be supported, that she won’t be left alone, she lights up any room with the exuberance of her laughing smile,

She is every single thing I asked for.

I was not prepared for the work of it. I was not prepared for the depth of her need; a need that is more emotional than physical. I was not aware that I would sometimes want nothing more than to be where I could not hear her, where she could not see me, where I could just be alone. I didn’t know that the sound of her whining cry would sometimes twist in my spine and make me grit my teeth while I, reluctantly, lifted her and we snuggled both of our frustration away.

It is more than I thought. But she is everything that I hoped.

And if I were to do it again, to pray it again before she arrives, my prayer would be the same.

Healthy and strong, smart and curious, full of joy.

Waiting It Out

Could I let my baby cry? Could I firmly remind her that “it is time for bed” and walk away, in tears to the sound of her tears? Yes. I could. I am “strong enough”, if that’s what you believe it takes.

Last night my 10.5 month old had a rough night. We had a rough night together. There was very little sleep for either of us. At a little after 5 this morning we got out of bed grumpily and with little interaction. An hour passed. I dressed her in warmer clothes. Changed her diaper. Gave her a snack. Found some solutions for her aching teeth. We went back to bed. Grumpily and with little interaction.

We lay in bed together, tummy pressed to tummy, as I nursed her. It took a long time for her to settle in to sleep. She lay still, and close, and our breaths found rhythm together and our heart rates slowed. I studied her face and saw her fatigue and my grumpiness melted. I stroked her hair and her eyes drifted closed.

Once asleep she turned from me and laid on her back. I turned from her and laid on mine. In her sleep she reached out a tiny hand and wrapped it around mine. And my heart melted and I slept. My larger hand held in the tiny one of my sleeping babe.

Could I let my baby cry? Am I dutiful enough to do the hard thing if it is the best thing? Yes. Am I grateful that crying it out and controlled crying are Not The Best Thing? You bet! Moments like these is why I have, do, and will continue to wait it out. 

Early Riser

My kid is toying with the idea of becoming an early riser. Two days ago it was 4:30 a.m. That’s right, before the sun. Today it was 5.

5:00 a.m. is like 4:30′s slightly prettier but still poorly dressed cousin.

7. 7 is the earliest acceptable wake time. Say it with me, Mabel… “Seeevven….”



Sunday’s are normally the day I get refilled, a day of renewal. After a week’s worth of nurturing a baby, running a home, cooking meals, nodding and smiling and decision making and go go going, Sunday’s are the day in which I get a little return. No, I don’t go to church, it’s our family day. It’s me and the husband and the baby all together. We run errands or we don’t. We pay social calls or we don’t. We accomplish things, or we don’t.

On Sunday’s it’s more than just feeling like, for a day at least, it’s not at all on me to keep it together. It’s getting to spend the day with my husband, who is laid back and calm and decisive and gentle and affectionate and kind. I draw from his strength on Sunday’s. I replenish my stores.

This system usually works very well. Except right now. Right now it’s not working.

My husband is going through a hard time all of his own. Overwhelmed with parenthood, sleep deprived, more to do lists than time? Who knows really. He’s not great with communication and his issues aren’t my business to write about.

Thing is, his hard time is getting harder it seems. And, while I want to support him through whatever he’s going through, and be patient and kind and replenishing to him, I just have nothing. Whatever it is that eats away at my mind is taking big, ravenous bites, and I’m disoriented from it all. My moods shift faster than ever, my highs aren’t happy, they’re frantic. My lows aren’t sad, they’re furious. The world is a merry go round spinning faster and faster and I’m nauseous from the ride. No, I’m literally nauseous.

I’ve absorbed whatever my husband is going through into myself. Assuring myself that, whatever his problem, it’s me. It’s me. It’s me. It’s always me.

And I’m left without a support. The only person I trust to talk about these things with is distracted at best, disinterested at worst. There is no checking in, there is no pulling close. There is me and my thoughts and my trying ever harder to keep a tight grip on a falling world.

Yesterday was Sunday. It was stilted and silent. It was irritable and short. It was his way and mine. It was not a refilling. There was no replenishing. I tell myself that it’s okay. That he’s allowed to go through his seasons as I am allowed mine. I tell myself, and believe, that everything will eventually get back on track.


But in the meantime I can’t breathe.

And so I keep on keeping on, breath be damned, because somehow it’s all got to keep moving forward. And Mabel eats and sleeps and plays. And I’m right there for every bit of it.

Nauseous and not breathing.

I hope we don’t miss too many Sundays.

Methodical Wellness

Parenting makes me purposeful. I sit on the floor to read or play and I place myself with purpose. I align my back and cushion where needed, prepared to stay as long (or as short) as necessary. I am more aware now. I pay attention to where I lay us in bed, careful to leave enough space for her to roll away and still be safe. I am purposeful with my words, aware in my actions, knowing little eyes are watching and learning in every moment. I do not try to escape this monumental undertaking; I do not shy away from this methodical living. It is necessary and important for safety and wellness and health of all forms.

I am very often sad or anxious lately. The anxiety comes and goes, sharp and ferocious and then gone, but the sadness lingers. It becomes an undercurrent of which I am only sometimes aware, but which dictates the direction in which I flow. While I am a purposeful swimmer when it comes to parenting Mabel, in the rest of my life I have begun to simply float where the current takes me. My epiphany this morning (during laundry, how cliche) is that this current is not my friend.

While I am forever asking and answering questions as a parent – Is the sun too hot? Is she safe with that toy? Will she be alright on the ground? Why is she crying? – I realize that I have stopped doing so as a person. This is not an acceptable state of being, especially for a being in distress.

I wake up. I notice I am sad. I lay still and think, “I am still sad. It feels so heavy. Something is very wrong. I wish xyz would happen so this sadness could be fixed. The baby is stirring. She’s awake. Go away sadness, I have to be a Mom now.”

Two things. First, I am not a compartmentalized person. I cannot be a sad person between the hours of 6 pm and 5 am, when I am not solely responsible for Mabel’s care and well being, and a stable and healthy parent the rest of the time.

Second, there is no purpose in those thoughts. There is no awareness, no method. There is only blind acceptance, of what is not an acceptable long term reality, and blame.

If she hadn’t….I wouldn’t be feeling such anxiety.
If he would only…I wouldn’t feel so sad.

It doesn’t matter what I fill in those blanks with, those statements are not true. The answers to what is wrong within me do not lay without.

Why am I sad? What is this emotion surrounding? What does it feel like when I allow it to be felt? Is there an action I can take that will help alleviate this feeling? If so, what is it? Why aren’t I taking it? Do I want to feel better? Do I need to feel sad? What am I feeling anxious about? What lies am I believing? What is the truth? What am I hiding from?

I know the questions. I know the method to wellness. I have steadfastly and adamantly refused both, whether consciously or not. Perhaps I have needed this time. I can allow for that possibility, but it is needed no longer.

My husband needs me, my friends need me, my house needs me…I need me.

And so it is time to sit with the scary questions and find out their quiet answers. It is time to be well again.

Because, really, why not?