written 3/2

No matter what you do for work, career, relationships- when you are early in recovery from drugs/alcohol/addiction, you realize that you really are alone with yourself. Things are so lonely.

I have a spool of yarn that has been knitted into a scarf- it’s about 10 rows in, 10 long rows. I apparently didn’t want to waste the 10 knitted rows that I started 9 years ago, so it’s been in my bathing suit drawer for the past 9 years. It has moved 3 times in those years, just waiting to be finished. I feel like a hoarder that I have let it sit around for that long, untouched, until today.

I picked it up and decided I would finish it this week. I knitted one row, it felt foreign and difficult and cumbersome. I hunched over and strained my eyes and my fingers to knit one row. I could imagine there were 50ish more rows needed to complete. This week, I told myself. This week I shall finish it. I can do it in a week.

I put M down for his nap and sat down to knit. I sat in a chair that was in between my usual spot in the kitchen, and where L and B were in the family room. I could hear them easily from this place. I overheard the most sweet and wonderful noises of them talking, helping each other, L teaching B, B asking L questions. I heard them interacting in a way that I don’t normally hear when they know I’m around. It was quite beautiful.

As I knitted, I decided that trying to finish a scarf in a week was some form of self torture. Quite literally, I wondered for what I was punishing myself that I would have thought such a thing.


I have nothing to say today, I have no appetite, no drive to be upright, no ambition, barely any love for my loves. I feel so depressed today, so much like nothing. A waste of space. I don’t know why I am even here some times and I truly feel like other lives would be better off without me. I’m not suicidal in a practical sense of planning and realistically wanting to die exactly, but I do think sometimes I should just die.

I think of all the burden that it brings to know me, all the trouble that I am. I think of all the people that I hurt, and how I don’t know how to not hurt people. My parents, my extended family who must just be so disappointed in me. I think of friends that I’ve had to let go, that I deny- M, J, others… people that I’ve put so much distance between that it must not make any sense to them.

And I think of all the ways in which I waste so much time, the ways that I’ve been betrayed and how that must be a burden to my husband… and think of how much simpler things would be if I just disappeared.

I know that it would be an upsetting mystery as to why, why I died, why I left and never returned with no explanation. Yet I know that once the dust settled that things would go on without me in a more satisfying and peaceful way.


I hear that this must sound unhealthy and skewed and frighteningly close to suicidal thinking and yet, I see it as absolute reality. I’ve got nothing to give. I just sit here like a blob of nothing, someone that robs others of joy and ease in life, someone who takes up space and offers nothing of benefit. I feel my body that is here in this spot, pressing on the earth and holding down the carpet fibers. And I know that beyond a presence of physical space-taking, I have very little, perhaps nothing, to offer anyone.

I am a burden in the most painful, sad sense.

Why does anyone even matter? I don’t know that we do. When someone dies, those who loved them are in pain, but pain is fleeting. It is momentary and then gone and then it comes and goes. Perhaps like my pain of being alive right now. Sometimes I’m ok and other times I wish to just be gone. That’s how it is for people when they lose someone I think- sometimes they can’t even handle the pain and other times they get on with it and live life ok.

So because God hasn’t ended my life yet, I am still here. I will not take my own life but I will wonder, every day it seems, why He has left me here another day. Most moments I just don’t get it. I love my children so much it hurts- I love them so painfully because I know I do not deserve them. I know that I do not. I feel it in every skin cell and it goes deep into my bones. That is why nothing matters to me- because I don’t deserve these blessings that I have in this life.

Perhaps I do, and that is WHY God gave them to me, but it is just so far out of my realm of reality that I can’t even fathom that I do deserve them. It seems like a horrible mistake and I mourn that they don’t have a mother that is worthy.

Writing these words makes me sob heaving sobs. I see my sunlit reflection in the computer screen and with my puffy deformed crying face I look so filthy and nasty and ugly, in a pathetic and disgusting and horrible way.

Maybe this is Satan attacking me because as I get sober he thinks he can get me back. Maybe it’s the reality of my life hitting me now that I’m not drunk every day any more. I’m just not available. I’m not here for those who need me, I’m not anywhere that I’m needed. I’m not needed anywhere. So I just exist. I go through the motions and slug through hour by hour. Feeling nothing. Painfully numb. Not numb all the way just fogged out enough to feel numb and feel nothing.

I do not feel drawn to drink. I do not feel drawn to anything today. Which is better in a different way, but the depression is heavy. The angst and pain and sadness of my reality is heavy. It presses on me, holds me down, keeps me from smiling, from needing or wanting or feeling. I wish I could sleep through this period of time without waking up.