Breakthrough

This post was going to be about self-hatred. i have the draft nearly ready to post, and maybe i will "publish" it when it feels right, but for now, i write of self-respect.

i came out of the weekend a different person than i went in, and that doesn't happen often. the experience covers all the usual bases -- food, alcohol, relationship...

i'd been plotting to drink and stopped taking antabuse (the drug that makes you sick if you drink) friday. antabuse takes several days to get out of your system, so i planned to drink tonight. i'm not staying at my boyfriend's, and i was going to have a delightful little romantic evening with myself.

The plan. After work on monday i'd take myself to a beautiful, fancy restaurant and order a delicious, expensive wine with a salad. the wine would compensate for any additional food i'd want but wouldn't allow myself. I'd sit at the bar and read and write and chat with folks. when i lived in new york, i loved hanging out in bars and meeting people and writing.

or did i? when i lived in new york, i starved and binged voraciously and drank wine to puke all night. perhaps it wasn't all as romantic as i remember.

now to the present. i'd told my therapist and my group that i longed for wine and was plotting to drink, but somehow i didn't convey the message of urgency. probably, because i wanted to drink. no one picked up that i was in danger.

yesterday, i was at the boyfriend's. each time i thought about my plan my heart would race -- a bad sign. i hate panic attacks. why was i going to do this? to end 6 and half weeks of hard-fought, hard-won sobriety? i'd have to tell my therapist. i'd have to tell my group. i'd have to start over?

why was i going to break my promise to myself?

i texted a member of my group. i texted my therapist. i spoke with both, told the truth and took my antabuse. i was proud, indeed. that doesn't happen often.

end of story, right? no. later that day, the boyfriend and i fought. he hasn't smoked a cigarette in seven years, but he used to smoke three packs a day. now, he hates cigarettes. he finds them disgusting. he wouldn't date a woman who smokes.

i've been secretly smoking a cigarette a week, when i'm at the end of my robe and desperate for a vice, something to do with my hands, when i want wine, food, a sedative.

i decided i didn't want to hide so many things and left the (nearly two month old pack) in my purse, knowing he'd see it eventually. he threw a fit, repeating he hates cigarettes, they nauseate him, and he always decided not to date a woman who smokes.

i started to cave, as i've always done in the past. i'd suck it all down, reach for my wine, deaden the night and smoke on the sly, alone in my room.

no. not this time. my self-respect rose up in me, and i ran back into the den, in his old tattered robe and my hot pink fuzzy slippers and said, "you're not being fair." i think i almost scared myself.

"there is nothing wrong with my smoking one secret a week in my apartment, when i need to do something to make sure i don't drink".

"why", he glared " do you need to go one from bad addiction to the next? if you're not drinking, or taking a pill or eating, why must you smoke a cigarette? you need to do something healthy when you're longing to drink."

again, i almost caved. he's right, i thought. but he's not right for right now.

"you're right" i said. "it would be great to practice some way of coping. but for right now, if it helps me, it's not so bad to smoke one cigarette a week in my own apartment".

he held his ground, again saying that he'd stated how he feels, and he wasn't going to change his mind.

"so," i said, "are you going to tell your parents that we broke up because i smoke one cigarette a week?"

we both paused. you could feel the air change.

" i can't breathe," i wheezed, "my heart is racing. i have to lie down on the bed."

"i can't breathe either", he said.

We walked to the bed and lay down. and laughed.

"i don't need to smoke", i said "it's not a deal breaker. you mean so much more to me than a cigarette. i don't even really like them. it's just something to do with my hands. i won't smoke.:

"no", came his words. "you smoke your cigarettes as long as you need them. just don't smoke in the house."

we both exhaled.