This is a tandem post with Liz at Motherhood Is Not For Wimps, describing the final days of my active drinking, how my friends came to terms with what was happening, and what it was like from my perspective. Part Two of a three-part series. Part One begins here. Liz's Part Two begins here, with my perspective following below.
The last few weeks of drinking are a blur.
More fights with my husband, more stashed bottles found, angry accusations, desperate pleas, meaningless promises. And drinking, always drinking. I had crossed the line into physical addiction. I had to drink. If I didn't drink, my hands shook, I broke into a sweat, had panic attacks.
As Steve was desperately talking to my family and his family, trying to figure out what to do, I was plotting my escape, figuring out how to get more alcohol.
He hid the car keys. He dropped me off at a recovery meeting, and I pretended to go in. He had taken my purse away, but not before I had tucked $10 into my sock. As soon as he drove away, I ran down the street to the local mini-mart. I bought nips, sipped them as I ran back to the meeting. I made it back before it ended, pretended I'd been there all along.
As soon as I got in the car, he knew. I didn't care, because I had gotten my fix.
Towards the very end, although I didn't know it was nearing the end, I talked with Liz on the phone. I remember that I was hoping she would tell me I wasn’t that bad. I was up against the wall, desperate for a way out, so I used the kids as an excuse.
"I don't want to be away from the kids that long," I said, thinking that she would agree that the kids needed their mother.
At this point I wasn’t there for the kids at all, Steve was holding everything together, and she called me on it.
She told me that I needed help, needed to go to rehab, and it was like a punch in the gut.
Dead end, I thought. I hung up. There was nobody else left to call.
Shortly after this conversation, Steve sent me to a 30 day rehab.
Continued here - the conclusion to Liz's side of the story