Unfathomable Life

It’s been a while since I have dropped by …. the 4th Step had in knots and still has, however I am starting to untangle the biggest twists.

In the past week, someone close to me was open and honest with me – she put a name to my past and all of the pain and memories I have held onto so tightly for fear of drowning in pain. Instead of confronting, learning and nurturing myself,  I dulled my pain in wine, drugs and any other way I could find a way to ease the hurt and confusion.

I always knew that my childhood was abnormal – dysfunctional at best. Chaos, secrets, pain, death and blood featured heavily in my memories and life up until the age of 13. I am still struggling with remembering a lot about my childhood that does not feature drunk parents, suicidal mother and an abusive, extremely sick father. The complete opposite memories are of being the perfect grand daughter who looks lovely, says the right things at the right time, who is the keeper of secrets and the teller of all. Talk about conflicting expectations and experiences – in one day I would go from holding the hair out of mummys face while she vomited Victorian Bitter beer into a blue bucket I had retrieved from the kitchen that morning –  in the hope she could brush my long hair so I could go to school.

Come afternoon, after school, I would go home to an empty flat, spaghetti bolognese simmering on the stove and a note from my mum telling me she was at the “Collo” with Judy – that she would be home in time for dinner. My best friends mum and my mums drinking buddy. I would call Brandy at her flat across the internal car park – I could see her kitchen window from mine – and let her know where they were. I would then wait. Wait for my mum to return to feed me. At around 8 o’clock, I would start the phone calls to the pub – the barmaid would know me – and ask mum when she would be home. Eventually I would have turned the spag bog off in case it burnt. I would be hungry so I would eat bread until mum came home – mostly past midnight when the pub would shut.

Then, on a bad night, I would be awake at 3am calling an ambulance and my nana and pa to come and get me. Mum had slashed her wrists in the bath again, or taken an overdose of pills, or dad had been around and bashed her. Either way, I would open the door to the burly ambulance officers who would take my mum to hospital. Hopefully my nana and pa had made the 20 minute walk in time to be there with me to ensure I wasn’t left alone – we would then walk back to their place where I would spend the night, the week or whole months living with them until mum was back to ‘normal’.

Countless other memories include needles, drug abuse, men, women, strangers, police and guns.

And apparently this is called child abuse.

I was not physically hurt myself, however I was witness to the chaos that was my parents life. And this is a form of child abuse.

I still feel strange thinking about my childhood in those terms, however it fits. It resounds on an intellectual level.

I should never have been exposed to that life, a life of blood, death and abuse of self – nor should I have been asked to be the keeper of secrets and the teller of all.

I am now starting to feel compassion for the little girl with long hair that just tried to survive in any situation as much as she could. She did the best she could with the tools she had. She wasn’t bad. She didn’t mean to hurt people. She was not supposed to be the protector of her mum. She was not to blame for the death of her dad, nor the pain that her mum inflicted on herself.

She was innocent. I was innocent.

I was abused in many ways, I wasn’t protected as I should have been.

But that’s ok. As long as I deal with it now as an adult and feel compassion and love for that little girl that is still lost, hurt and scared.

Keep coming back.

Isabella.

Why life is amazing when waking up without a hangover and still sober:

• Waking up at 6.00am on a work day and having the day off! Legitimately and not as a sick day!!
  
• Freedom from fear and guilt – not a sick day!
• Being able to appreciate this view from couch –
  

  

• My favourite childhood show on in the background – Bewitched 

• Yet I am feeling like this:

 

Multiple other reasons but I am about to start Step Four – hopefully it doesn’t end with me on the floor like Juanita The Weasel (Thank you Bloggess).

Isabella

xx

 

 

Reasons I am so glad I didn’t drink last night as I nearly did:

 

 

As I age, I realise that I have been searching for something my whole life – just what it is, I am never sure, however sometimes I think I know what I am looking for.

Sometimes I am searching for my father – The Yugo –  I think I see him crossing the street, sitting in a bar, playing with children, holding some woman’s hand that is not my mother. I am constantly disappointed and lost.

occasionally I am looking for my mother – The Beautiful Girl that I feel I have lost through her own pain and due to my mistreatment of her beautiful soul. I am lucky she is still with me, however I feel that I have lost the connection with her – particularly when I was scared and horrified that I would end up like her. Which, in retrospect and now, I would be lucky to end up 1/2 the woman she is.

Other days, I am searching for a  connection – any sort of connection that will help me feel alive, recognised and validated – human, animal or inanimate. My search takes me wherever I think I will find the place that fills the void that sits in the centre of my being, that deep dark hole that I carry around inside of me.

Over the years I have used drugs – speed, ecstasy, trips and prescription medication to try to fill the void. I have also used shopping to try to fill the hole, to feel something, albeit briefly. I have always been in relationship – except for a two-year stint of my choice – hoping to fill the void with someone else – obviously I wasn’t good enough so I needed someone else to help me feel, act and be normal.

Alcohol has always been my constant companion, my crutch, the answer and the solution – my best friend, my sibling and my family. Until the bottle of white wine was no longer my friend, he no longer filled the void, he violated me and took advantage of my weakness, exploited my trust and nearly savaged my future. He still wants to annihilate me, however I am struggling to stay strong and free of his abuse.

I wrote this article when I was seeing a drug and alcohol counsellor in 2010 – he believed that writing was the key and was the one of only 3 counsellors in my life that agreed that no one else was my problem. My problem was my addiction to drugs and alcohol. He asked me to write how I feel about drinking and this is what I found ……

Searching

Always searching for someone, a friendly face, a recognised face. As soon as the doors closed behind me I feel both exposed and hidden. Walking up to the bar, I lean against the wooden ledge, careful to avoid the surface sticky with beer. I place my foot on the rail at my feet, leaning forward, relaxed and open.

I wait to catch the bartenders eye, smiling, watching their movements and assessing how long until I will be served.  How many people are in front of me? What will they order? How slow with the barman be serving them. Will the punter fumble with their money, further delaying my turn with the barman.

Finally. Its my turn. I smile, share a quick hello and order my drink. I have my money ready, no delays here, no fumbling, let’s get this moving along nicely. I don’t care how much, don’t need to know the details. I know what I want.

I make sure to smile again and say thank you once the deal is done, I have my wine – you never know when you will need him again, to serve you quickly and efficiently.

I turn from the bar and assess where to sit. I have already figured out a general area, however I want to make sure it’s the right place – I don’t want to move again.

I sit down, take my book our, arrange myself. Always keeping my head down and not making eye contact with anyone – this is my private time.

Finally I pick up my glass and take the first sip – it’s a challenge to make it look relaxed and not rushed, like I haven’t been waiting for this moment impatiently for a while. From then on, I try to slowly savour the glass, knowing that I’ve a propensity to drink fast, with dedication and enjoyment and surely that would be obvious to others watching me.

I get up for my second – making sure I walk tall, steadily and with purpose. I position myself at the bar so that I can watch my bag – again impatient to be served. But I keep my manners and have a little joke with the same barman… it’s a conspiracy.

Again I keep my head down reading, not making eye contact with anyone, not wanting to be noticed.

After my 3^rd, I loosen up a bit and look up from my book… look around at the bar, observing who is there, ensuring I don’t know anyone. I am getting bored with my book, reading is getting harder to concentrate on.

I start looking around, observing happy, laughing faces, wondering if I know them, do I know their lives, their thoughts at all? What makes them so relaxed to be in such a place? They have friends with them, all happy to be spending the afternoon in a pub on a sunny day, drinking beer, relaxing and having a fun time.

I want to be a part of that – I want to feel its ok to sit in a bar with a group of friends and have a couple of drinks and a good time.

I want to relax with a group of people I like and admire, have some fun, then go home and have something to eat, go back to normalcy.

I want it to be ok to be out in the world having fun, a couple of drinks and know when to go home.

I don’t want to be scared of drinking too much, slurring my words or embarrassing people. I don’t want to have to avoid those situations or be strict with myself beforehand. I know I can control my drinking when I am with friends – its only when I am alone, lonely that I am unable to.