Stripped

Maybe it is the meetings I go to, maybe it is what we are taught about how we, as alcoholics, view ourselves.

We are selfish.
We blame others for our problems.
We are prone to self-pity.
We tend to be terminally unique.
We can invent chaos.
We think if everyone would do it our way, everything would be all right and there will be double rainbows for everyone.  Pretty.

About ten days ago,  I read a book that I identified with more than the Big Book.  I read 50 pages, then hauled out the highlighters and started reading all over again.  About 100 pages in I had to stop that first sitting.  I sobbed the way I used to when I was almost done with the second bottle of wine and my husband and I weren't speaking. Again.  At one point I thought to myself, you'll feel better in the morning.

Then I remembered I was stone cold sober.  There was no chalking this one up to alcohol.  I haven't really posted because I have been processing this.  I've talked to my therapist, our couples' therapist, my best friend, my mother and my sponsor.  But today I shared it in a meeting for the first time. Because it is my truth, and I have to share it or the woman I am becoming will get corked back into the bottle.  I have to trust that my sober sisters will understand, whether I see them face to face or here.

I am a victim of emotional abuse, and have been for 10 years.  I had no idea.  It feels like the thing I relied on the most: my strength, was a mere figment.  I'm not going to go into details.  Frankly, I'm not sure if my husband could or would track me here.  I had to lock down my computer a few days ago with a password he would never know, let alone guess.  He's been visiting sites from my History, then clearing it.  He certainly would not categorize himself as an abuser, and I doubt you would either if you met him.  Shit, I haven't for 14 years, and yet it is true.  Feel free to email me for the name of the book.

Those of you who have read through all my postings know that the big reason I quit with the vino was that I didn't know if I could tolerate my marriage sober.  I felt I owed it to myself and my husband to return to the sober woman I was when we got married, who walked into this with a clear heart and head and all the sureness one could have.  As Cher said in Moonstruck, "I met him, I loved him, I married him."  It wasn't until our first child was born after 4 years that it started going bad.  We tried couples therapy back then, when my drinking was still reasonable.  He got fired for not participating and I was warned: if you divorce me I will fight for 100% custody and take everything.   In no uncertain terms.

Generally, he exerts his control covertly, but when he feels backed into a corner he will come out verbally swinging.  If I had balls he would have no trouble giving me a huge kick in them (metaphorically).  He doesn't fight fair, he fights to win, and sees nothing wrong with that (ok on Wall Street, Gordon Gecko, but you're not crushing Charlie Sheen over here).  For years, I have thought that is how all men are.  All this time I thought we were both trying to reach an agreement, a compromise, work through an issue.  No.  Not at all.  No wonder I never felt resolution or the need for make-up sex.

Facing this and integrating it into who am I is very hard.   How can I say I am a victim when I know all of the things on that list above can be true about me as an alcoholic?  Didn't I do my husband wrong with my drinking?  Not so much, turns out that what I did was play right into his hands.  When I drank he had control.  And subconsciously, that was fine with him.

In my Stealth post I focused on the "stealth" part of what I quoted from Augusten Burroughs Dry.  But now I'll focus on another portion of that quote: he drank to avoid feeling fear and pain.

I was in pain in my relationship, I trapped myself with my drinking, and I feared my husband.  Not the sticks and stones part, but the words part.  I didn't realize that there was an unspoken end to that saying in my head: "words will never hurt me"as long as there's enough alcohol in the house.  I believed that bullshit in the quotes until 10 days ago.  My fear was generally covered up by anger and irritation, but anyone who's read a couple of self help books knows that anger is only fear submerged.

I'm going to preface this next part and say that I discovered a huge character defect in all this.  HUGE.   When I sat and thought to myself, "I'm a victim of emotional abuse" I felt shame.  Shame that I have never felt before.  Shame so core and wrenching I couldn't talk to people about it for days.  Now, the book had one sentence on this: if I felt shame it was because I had internalized his.    I didn't read that the first night, but when I did I got it.  Still, shame, why so much shame?

Here's why (character defect spoiler-thanks to my therapist Craig for uncovering this unflattering bit of programming today): victims are weak and stupid and bring things on themselves because they aren't smart/self-aware/resilient enough to see the forest for the trees.  And I am one.  I now owe an amends to everyone that reads that sentence.  I was wrong and I am so sorry.  Or at least I believe that for you, if you are a victim.  For me, there is a little voice inside (maybe that bitch Ism) whispering: you were weak in hiding from pain in alcohol, stupid for letting this go on for a decade, and brought this on yourself with your high minded "that can't happen to me" mentality.  I'd been wondering where the guilt and pain was in my alcoholism--OH, here it is!

So, my five internet friends, I usually like to end my ramblings with a good wrap up: something wise or witty or concluding.  You know, the way we all do when we share in meetings.  Start and end our comments with Happy Birthdays and our gratitude for being in the rooms.  And I do feel incredible gratitude to the women who heard me today and supported me with their hugs and a lot of very appreciated crosstalk.  Who said to me, yes, we can do all those things on that list up there, but this, this is not that.  I'm also grateful that I'm peeling back the Ism onion, because after a month I knew it wasn't about the alcohol and I've been waiting for the other shoe to drop (didn't know it would get dropped from a 100 story building rather than, say, a hand).  But I'm tired, and not ready to forgive myself yet.  I believe I'll go do what I do well: stuff these feelings and read some fiction.  Fiddle-dee-dee, I'll worry about it tomorrow.   WWWWHHHHHEEEEE!