The Fear

I woke up this morning terrified that I may revert to my old self. I was filled with despair: questioning why I should continue to exist when all I wanted to do was drink myself into oblivion.

Nothing had changed - I am close to 6 months sober, signed off work due to stress: in recovery.

What brought about this fear? I think it was due to my medications running out and my decision to go it alone—without any pharmacological support. I had a prescription being prepared, but I thought I would just leave it uncollected, not bother to register with a doctor and simply manage my own situation. I went to bed positive and optimistic. I believed in myself, thinking I had turned a corner with my drinking, and that I could DIY it.

Then last night the demon of despair slipped in. I had weird, pornographic dreams, and in the dark recesses of the night, where you sometimes obtain a sharpness of clarity on life -- though how useful it proves to be the jury is still out -- I encountered the fear.

I remembered the despair of taking to my bed last year, on three separate occasions. Not caring if I lived or died—hoping for an incurable illness so I would not be blamed for leaving my kids fatherless. How hard it must be for children who have lost a parent to suicide not to lose their own hope for life. A parent who had lost all hope. A husband who was willing to desert his wife in the most unambiguous way. The fear that I might return to that state of mind.

I have occupied this space for 20 years, carrying deep shame, failures, and an unrequited love. Always unrequited, as my alcoholism offered me hope but never delivered—offered excitement but instead brought guilty, shame and despair. Then the depression would hit me in the wee hours of the morning. I would wake up broken, and it would take me until mid-morning to pull myself together. Then by early evening, I was ready to go again, as I could not face a sober night.

Returning to that life was the fear I met in my dreams. 6 months sober, and still it can pull me back. I used to experience something similar when I gave up smoking: I would dream that I had been smoking, then wake up full of remorse and despair that I had wiped out three months of hard work by having a cigarette, only to realise it was a dream. In reality, I had not smoked, and I would heave a great sigh of relief. But last night was different, though. I did not have a sense of relief upon waking because I had not dreamt that I had drunk. My demons had not visitated that particular delight upon me, instead, I woke with the fear that I might drink again. That I was not handling this.

What do I do with this knowledge? My situation right now is that I am signed off work with anxiety. I am taking both Disulfiram, so that if I drink I will be ill, and Venlafaxine to control my mood. I am not sure how I will get back to work before I am sacked. I am also not sure what career awaits me.

I am having a long overdue breakdown, and I do not know how it will end.