Vol. 1: The Writer & Her Muse
“How Did We Get Here?”
By age fourteen, I had experimented with nearly every illicit drug on the market. It wasn't until I reached my early twenties, that I realized a void lived within me; an abysmal dissatisfaction with everything that—by that point—had grown too vast to fill with drugs, alcohol, and sex.
Still, I tried and tried.
At age thirty, I got pregnant for the third time in my life, and gave birth to my first child; an eight-and-a-half-pound, healthy boy.
All was well until it wasn't.
In the following excerpt from my upcoming memoir, Ballad of a Sick Girl, I detail—with brutal honesty—what early motherhood looked like for me.
“It's mid-July, 2016, and I’m blackout drunk—dead weight soaked in urine I’ve unknowingly expelled onto the driver’s seat of my parked car—when I awake to the sound of aluminum tapping glass. Behind me, an infant carrier secured with straps and buckles I cannot recall fastening, holds my sleeping baby nearly succumbing to the midday heat. Unable to explain to the police officer at my window why or when we’d wound up in a parking lot hundreds of miles from home, I’m arrested.”
Me with my son in 2016. Days before the state of South Carolina charges me with Public Intoxication (a misdemeanor) and Child Neglect (a felony).
Convinced I hit rock bottom during the incarceration period that followed, I surrendered to the twelve-step program my dad had years before, and his dad had years before that. There within the program’s group meetings, I learned a saying:
“If nothing changes, nothing changes.”
Six years it's taken me to understand the true meaning of that sentence. Six years of struggling to maintain my sobriety while also being a mom.
Six hard years. Six long years. Six necessary years.
Spoiler alert: Anon meetings couldn't save me. No shaman, nor guru escorted me into the light. Writing is therapeutic, but it's not therapy, and neither saved me.
Frankly, I don’t believe salvation is possible, only growth, and it starts from within.
Like the good witch, Glinda says to a desperate Dorothy moments before she escapes Oz,
"You had the power all along, my dear…”
“Who Does This?”
I was a sensitive child, but that doesn't mean I was empathetic. I was perceptive of the world around me, and it all felt like too much and not enough, simultaneously.
My little boy is the same; big feelings trapped in a small body. Seeing myself in him is both alarming and inspiring.
Perhaps, my inner child is also nurtured when I tell my son,
“I see you, and I understand you.”
Please do not let that part fool you. I am not winning the parenting Olympics any time soon. Gold medalist moms host neighborhood Easter egg hunts, I duck and cover at the sound of my doorbell ringing.
Constantly and consistently (minute by minute), I learn as I go. Not just when it comes to raising a kid, either. In my experience, as soon as I think I have life all figured out, I am doomed to fail.
And here’s the rub:
The process lasts forever. For the rest of my natural life, I am a work-in-progress. I must remember this always.
Abusing mood-altering substances becomes less and less attractive to me with each passing day, but sitting with my pain instead of numbing it—stepping into the void rather than filling it—will probably always suck. I’m okay with that.
Like most journeys into the belly of the unknown, self-discovery is terrifying.
For me, it’s totally worth it.
Waking up happy to experience true self-reliance is worth it. Doing life with my incredible son is worth it. The ability to share the car line at the school pickup with the gold medalist moms (and likely a few of us, too) is so damned worth it.
Me with my son in 2022. Sober and happy by the Reedy River in Falls Park, Greenville, S.C.
“How’s It Going?”
Recently, my boy expressed an interest in joining a local soccer league.
My initial reaction was fear; How will I handle the expense of the extra-curricular, the time spent at practice and games, and the heartbreak the both of us will endure when his team inevitably loses?
So. Much. To. Cope. With.
It’s no surprise that the most recent study (SAMHSA 2010) showed that 1 in 10 U.S. kids have an alcoholic parent, and that’s assuming people were telling the truth about their drinking habits.
I salivate as I picture the other moms, cheering on the sidelines, sipping liquid comfort from discreet Yeti cups. Then, I'm riddled with nervous shakes because I know I can never be one of them.
I’m okay with that too.
I can be a sober cheerleader. My boy can be a soccer player.
And, win or lose, neither of us must get drunk in order to face the lows and highs life kicks our way.
You don't have to, either.
Should you find the courage to leave the comfort of your Netflix binge for a sun-drenched field of screaming children in overpriced uniforms, please know that I am with you.
Look for me there, raising my sixth tumbler of coffee of the day, quietly surviving an existential crisis behind a pair of dark and cartoonish sunglasses.
My second favorite mom-in-recovery—author, advocate, and all-around badass—Glennon Doyle said it best:
“We can do hard things.”
So, keep going. Continue suiting up and showing up. Please.
I know that the journey is not easy, but those worth taking rarely are.
This week’s links:
We Can Do Hard Things podcast
Substance Abuse & Mental Health Services Administration
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