First milestone but the trip isn't over.
So, I thought I started a page about this before, but I must have forgotten where I started it, or the user name, so I'm starting over.
I hit a big milestone on the road to recovery. I am a year sober as of November 6, 2010. It sounds funny saying that, especially since I didn't think I would ever need to say that. But, I guess no one ever starts this life planning on needing to be sober.
Along with that milestone, as of November 6, 2010, I am also one year free of self-harm.
I have also been out of rehab for just over a year. I guess that's where this starts. Actually, it starts much longer ago than that, but I will give a bit of exposition.
In late February, 2008, I got drunk. I was at the end of a year long stretch of work with only 7 days off and I was still broke. I was having girl troubles. I was lonely and, well, I have anger issues (with myself). One of my coping mechanisms when I get depressed or start feeling unsure, or uneasy is to drink, and to drink a lot.
Another of my coping methods is to cut, punch, burn or other wise harm myself. I have been in treatment for this issue for some time now.
But, back in February of 2008 the drinking and the self-harm came together and I set my arm on fire. Not huge, but not small either. The injury was too bad to hide, especially from the people that knew I had an issue. So, I landed in rehab for stabilization, to keep me under lock and key while they tweaked my meds. That way they could keep an eye on me and make sure I didn't do any more damage.
Rehab was the most surreal experiences of my life. They took my belt, my shoelaces, my power toothbrush. They took anything I could possibly use to harm myself. I felt like I was being baby-proofed. I was only in for five days, not long compared to some, but for that five days I didn't feel like myself. I just wondered the halls, confused and disoriented. I really felt like someone else had been put in to my skin. I started talking about the 5 days I wasn't me.
While I was in the hospital I met a lot of other people. Some were there for addiction issues, some, like myself, were in for mental illness. Most of those people, especially the addicts, had it much worse off and I was very glad I was not in their shoes. I learned a lot while I was there, though, I learned that if these folks can make it, then I can make it. I left with a new diagnosis, OCD and a Mood Disorder (in addition to a panic and anxiety disorder) and with a whole new cocktail of meds. And I thought I was out of the woods. Things would be great! Five days and my life would turn around. And, I told myself that, no matter what, I never wanted to end up here again.
My life did turn around, slowly, but it did turn around. Eventually, after another year of life stresses (job loss, girl troubles, family issues) my life actually turned too far around, it did a full circle and I ended up plastered, crying on my bathroom floor, broken glass in my hand, cutting and punching and stabbing myself while my best friends frantically tried to unlock the door from the outside.
This time I had really done it. I had hit rock bottom. I didn't even try to hide what I was doing. I just did it. I just had to. It was a scary night for all involved. I remember sitting on the edge of my bed, delirious, both from drink and from shock. My brother was at my side while I called my doctor. Should I go back to the hospital? I didn't want to go back. I couldn't bare it. I was weeping and moaning. Please don't make me go back.
The nurse asked if there would be someone there to watch me. My brother and my best friend lived with me and my mother came to our apartment to stay the night. The nurse was fine with that. They didn't make me go back. But, I had to go in to the doctor the next day to be evaluated and they may have made me go back then.
They didn't make me go back. Instead, they put me in an IOP (intensive out-patient program). Essentially it was rehab where I got to stay at my own place. I had to go every morning, Monday-Friday, for group counseling. I couldn't work during the program. Because my intake nurse thought I may have a drinking problem I was asked to not drink while in the program. And, above all, I couldn't continue to harm myself. They would adjust my meds and monitor me daily to see if the changes were working. They would keep an eye on me.
It was a very interesting experience. It became my life. I got up, went to group, went home, slept. Got up, went to group, went home, slept. Eventually the sleeping became less and less. But still, it was what I did. I went to group.
At first, I didn't talk much. I was a wreck. I was wrestling with the shame of what I had done, and also with two new bombshells. I am bipolar. I am an alcoholic. It was tough, but being with the same people everyday, going through it with people that understood in their own way made it bearable. I also started going to outside meetings, Emotions Anonymous (EA) a place for people like me that have emotional issues. It is like AA, but with a little different focus. Though I have the drinking issue, the bipolar was the main problem and EA was another tool to cope.
As the weeks went on, I opened up more. The mood swings became less drastic. One day I showed up with short sleeves. I had been wearing long sleeves the whole time to cover my cuts and bruises. Everyone was proud of me that day. A week or so later I showed up with long sleeves again. My girlfriend, who cared so much about me, broke up with me while I was in rehab because she liked the manic me, she liked the tipsy me. I went home, had a drink, put a butcher knife to my wrist...I didn't cut too deep, but it was the worst injury yet. I had to go in for stitches on a Saturday and Monday I had long sleeves on. I had to admit to the counselor, and worse, the group, that I had slipped.
The counselor made me roll up my sleeves and show everyone. I was so ashamed. She made me promise her, and the group, that I wouldn't do that, or drink, again. If I did she would send me to the hospital. She didn't need to. That Saturday had been November 6, 2009. The last day I took a drink or cut myself.
Because of my set back, and a few other things, the counselor kept me in the IOP longer. I should have been out in 5-6 weeks. It became over 8. I had already told my boss I wouldn't be coming back to work because we identified the odd hours as a major trigger for my mania and that led to drinking and the depression.
But, that's what it took. Eight weeks. I was out of the program just before Thanksgiving, 2009. It was tough, it was a struggle. When I left, the counselor was pleased with my progress. "When you first got here, you were a hot mess," she said. The work was not over, but I had new tools to use. I had my EA meetings, I had my 12 steps, I had slogans and mantras and all sorts of things to keep me safe and sober.
I have little notes everywhere now. In my car, on my desk. Little reminders to keep me on track. And I have been on track, for one whole year. I am not recovered, you never are, they say. I am in recovery and I always will be. But, that is my mission. My mission is to stay in recovery and not fall again. I want to stay me all the time now. It is a new me, but it is me. I don't want to go five days or eight weeks not being me.
I will never again be, 8 weeks not me.
Thanks for letting me share.
I hit a big milestone on the road to recovery. I am a year sober as of November 6, 2010. It sounds funny saying that, especially since I didn't think I would ever need to say that. But, I guess no one ever starts this life planning on needing to be sober.
Along with that milestone, as of November 6, 2010, I am also one year free of self-harm.
I have also been out of rehab for just over a year. I guess that's where this starts. Actually, it starts much longer ago than that, but I will give a bit of exposition.
In late February, 2008, I got drunk. I was at the end of a year long stretch of work with only 7 days off and I was still broke. I was having girl troubles. I was lonely and, well, I have anger issues (with myself). One of my coping mechanisms when I get depressed or start feeling unsure, or uneasy is to drink, and to drink a lot.
Another of my coping methods is to cut, punch, burn or other wise harm myself. I have been in treatment for this issue for some time now.
But, back in February of 2008 the drinking and the self-harm came together and I set my arm on fire. Not huge, but not small either. The injury was too bad to hide, especially from the people that knew I had an issue. So, I landed in rehab for stabilization, to keep me under lock and key while they tweaked my meds. That way they could keep an eye on me and make sure I didn't do any more damage.
Rehab was the most surreal experiences of my life. They took my belt, my shoelaces, my power toothbrush. They took anything I could possibly use to harm myself. I felt like I was being baby-proofed. I was only in for five days, not long compared to some, but for that five days I didn't feel like myself. I just wondered the halls, confused and disoriented. I really felt like someone else had been put in to my skin. I started talking about the 5 days I wasn't me.
While I was in the hospital I met a lot of other people. Some were there for addiction issues, some, like myself, were in for mental illness. Most of those people, especially the addicts, had it much worse off and I was very glad I was not in their shoes. I learned a lot while I was there, though, I learned that if these folks can make it, then I can make it. I left with a new diagnosis, OCD and a Mood Disorder (in addition to a panic and anxiety disorder) and with a whole new cocktail of meds. And I thought I was out of the woods. Things would be great! Five days and my life would turn around. And, I told myself that, no matter what, I never wanted to end up here again.
My life did turn around, slowly, but it did turn around. Eventually, after another year of life stresses (job loss, girl troubles, family issues) my life actually turned too far around, it did a full circle and I ended up plastered, crying on my bathroom floor, broken glass in my hand, cutting and punching and stabbing myself while my best friends frantically tried to unlock the door from the outside.
This time I had really done it. I had hit rock bottom. I didn't even try to hide what I was doing. I just did it. I just had to. It was a scary night for all involved. I remember sitting on the edge of my bed, delirious, both from drink and from shock. My brother was at my side while I called my doctor. Should I go back to the hospital? I didn't want to go back. I couldn't bare it. I was weeping and moaning. Please don't make me go back.
The nurse asked if there would be someone there to watch me. My brother and my best friend lived with me and my mother came to our apartment to stay the night. The nurse was fine with that. They didn't make me go back. But, I had to go in to the doctor the next day to be evaluated and they may have made me go back then.
They didn't make me go back. Instead, they put me in an IOP (intensive out-patient program). Essentially it was rehab where I got to stay at my own place. I had to go every morning, Monday-Friday, for group counseling. I couldn't work during the program. Because my intake nurse thought I may have a drinking problem I was asked to not drink while in the program. And, above all, I couldn't continue to harm myself. They would adjust my meds and monitor me daily to see if the changes were working. They would keep an eye on me.
It was a very interesting experience. It became my life. I got up, went to group, went home, slept. Got up, went to group, went home, slept. Eventually the sleeping became less and less. But still, it was what I did. I went to group.
At first, I didn't talk much. I was a wreck. I was wrestling with the shame of what I had done, and also with two new bombshells. I am bipolar. I am an alcoholic. It was tough, but being with the same people everyday, going through it with people that understood in their own way made it bearable. I also started going to outside meetings, Emotions Anonymous (EA) a place for people like me that have emotional issues. It is like AA, but with a little different focus. Though I have the drinking issue, the bipolar was the main problem and EA was another tool to cope.
As the weeks went on, I opened up more. The mood swings became less drastic. One day I showed up with short sleeves. I had been wearing long sleeves the whole time to cover my cuts and bruises. Everyone was proud of me that day. A week or so later I showed up with long sleeves again. My girlfriend, who cared so much about me, broke up with me while I was in rehab because she liked the manic me, she liked the tipsy me. I went home, had a drink, put a butcher knife to my wrist...I didn't cut too deep, but it was the worst injury yet. I had to go in for stitches on a Saturday and Monday I had long sleeves on. I had to admit to the counselor, and worse, the group, that I had slipped.
The counselor made me roll up my sleeves and show everyone. I was so ashamed. She made me promise her, and the group, that I wouldn't do that, or drink, again. If I did she would send me to the hospital. She didn't need to. That Saturday had been November 6, 2009. The last day I took a drink or cut myself.
Because of my set back, and a few other things, the counselor kept me in the IOP longer. I should have been out in 5-6 weeks. It became over 8. I had already told my boss I wouldn't be coming back to work because we identified the odd hours as a major trigger for my mania and that led to drinking and the depression.
But, that's what it took. Eight weeks. I was out of the program just before Thanksgiving, 2009. It was tough, it was a struggle. When I left, the counselor was pleased with my progress. "When you first got here, you were a hot mess," she said. The work was not over, but I had new tools to use. I had my EA meetings, I had my 12 steps, I had slogans and mantras and all sorts of things to keep me safe and sober.
I have little notes everywhere now. In my car, on my desk. Little reminders to keep me on track. And I have been on track, for one whole year. I am not recovered, you never are, they say. I am in recovery and I always will be. But, that is my mission. My mission is to stay in recovery and not fall again. I want to stay me all the time now. It is a new me, but it is me. I don't want to go five days or eight weeks not being me.
I will never again be, 8 weeks not me.
Thanks for letting me share.