Part 3: Right on Time

The air conditioner kicked on and I snuck out to the back yard to steal a quiet moment during nap time. I had just shared about my struggle with alcohol on social media. People told me I was brave to share my words. I rolled my eyes. 

I looked at comment after comment as the sun beat down on me. 

“You are brave.” 

“You are amazing.”

Guilt beat down on me, too. 

I've been the sole proprietor of this narrative for almost a decade, highlighting my failures, all the times I didn’t quit, the rock bottoms I got so comfortable in. 

I let the weight of my guilt and shame crush me. I heaved and sobbed as I thought about all of those moments that I wrote about with no emotion, stating facts, crafting a compelling story for an outside observer. 

I put myself back in the story. I reminded myself this is not a fictional character, but my own life, my own choices, my very real guilt and shame and regret that I have broadcast to the world. 

And I sat with it. I didn’t quite welcome it, but I let it flow.

I gave up alcohol over three years ago, but I have never allowed myself to feel the weight of what it stole: my integrity, my trust in myself, hours passed out or hungover that I could have used to connect, to create, to engage.

I grieve those lost minutes, days, years. 

I’ve woken up most days since I shared my story with a pit in my stomach. An aching ego wound.

Guilt berates, but grace beckons. 

What if I was right on time? What if God, as usual, was right on time? 

The struggle gives me conviction. The fracture I felt fuels my fire for wholeness. Those moments that haunt me, remind me of what I’m fighting for, why absolute freedom is the only way. 

Bravery delayed is still bravery. 

It does not undo the damage. I just now admitted to myself how bad it really was. I’m now blundering through amends during a pandemic. I’m making a lot of mistakes with how to share and process.

Maybe I should have waited. But I remember that it was an essay that changed my life. The words of someone I respected who went first. Who had the courage to admit the problem and commit to a different future. Is it too bold to think I could be that person for someone else? 

The tears still flow, but they’re seasoned with relief--and awe and gratitude. I take a deep breath and head back inside the house. My husband, working from home, wraps me in a hug.

“I love you no matter what,” he whispers as he squeezes.

I take out a box of Playdoh and set up the molds and cutters and squishers on the counter for my son’s activity time. I walk up to his room and knock on the door. 

“You ready for activities?” I ask. He jumps up, clenching a Paw Patrol in one hand and reaches for mine with the other. We walk down the stairs hand in hand. At the bottom of the stairs, he does a little skip hop and lets out a squeal when he sees the Playdoh.

I lost many moments, but how many did I gain?

***

This is Part 3 of a 4-Part series chronicling my journey with alcohol. Look for the final post next week, Part 4: Beyond Labels.