Whiskey and Wisdom

“A flower can only bloom when it is planted in a stable environment and given what it needs to thrive. Otherwise, it shrivels up amongst the weeds, a withered ghost of what could have been. So without your soul and heart ever being properly tended to, you just become one of the thorns. Sharp to the touch and always ready to defend.”

My therapist suggested I write to release the words and emotions I kept bottled up inside. She also recommended I consider medication for my constant anxiety and frequent panic attacks, but the thought of being numbed to this life I live made me hesitant. I guess I felt if I was going to be cast in the tragedy that is my life, I wanted to be fully aware of the role I play. I feel like I’m in the band playing on the Titanic as it slowly slipped into its icy graveyard. I know well enough what is coming on this sinking ship, but I want to be watching it go down and play along with the tune, dammit.

Besides, when shit gets too heavy, I know a couple pours of whiskey on ice will dull the pain. Maybe that makes me an alcoholic, but it’s not like I drink everyday or get shit-faced when I do. There’s just something about the sweet sting of whiskey. The first sip is bitter strong and tough to swallow, but it erases all the words trapped in your throat you don’t dare speak. It warms you to your core, making that dull ache in your chest where your heart should be start to feel light again. It eases the mess of anxiety and nerves that resides in your gut and makes you feel happier, braver, and more likable.

Whiskey may just be a goddamn liar, but I keep showing up for the short lived peace and false relief it offers. It is a sweet talking prostitute calling my name on lips that taste like honey, and I’ll be damned if I don’t pay the price for a good quick fuck any chance I get. I respect the relationship I have with whiskey, and know when enough is enough. My biggest fear is that if I take the doctor’s pills, I’ll reach for more when I still feel the pain. I may give myself another pour with liquor, but I’m no drug addict. That lack of control terrifies the shit out of me.

I did truly believe I was crazy, for many years. Even my “concerned” husband pushed for me to take the anti-depressants and anxiety pills prescribed to me. When I would speak out against him in an argument, he was quick to say I was too emotional, too crazy, too difficult. For so long, I blamed myself for all of our arguments. Why did I ask for more from him? Why did I expect him to be emotionally or physically present for me when I asked for help? How dare I accuse him of making a mistake or not doing enough? Silly girl, you found someone kind enough to marry you and accept you with all of your flaws, stupidities, and issues. How dare you ask for more?

This was the narrative I told myself for so many years. I became more complacent, less demanding, and ultra forgiving. If I needed some form of physical or emotional help, I learned to either do it myself or make do without. I wished myself dead - thinking that my existence was such an unfair burden for my sweet husband who didn’t deserve to deal with my bullshit. I became smaller and smaller, taking up less space and learning to navigate domesticated bliss as a wife who prepped and prepared all of the meals, happily sang while sifting and sorting and folding mounds of laundry, and joyfully scrubbing shit caked in the toilet bowl. Yes, this was the stuff dreams are made. The purpose of my life was simple - service and sacrifice. Those were surely the principles any happy and successful marriage should be built upon.

Until one day, I woke the fuck up.