I am the mother of four handsome, intelligent boys, ages 16, 10, 7, and 4. I am the wife to a husband I have put though hell, but who stayed with me even though he is now resentful, at times, toward me. I am a civil defense litigation attorney. I am a writer. I am a lover of good books, both non-fiction and fiction. I am a foodie. I passionately love good wines, mainly big, bold reds. I love to travel. I constantly think I am not good "enough" --not a good enough mother, wife, attorney, writer, person, woman, Christian (am I even one anymore?), Buddist (I wanted to be one, but never actually started except for reading a lot of books on the subject and attending one meditation), cook, person who is knowledgable about wines, and traveller. And, as I said numerous times in AA, my name is _______ and I AM AN ALCOHOLIC.
Thankfully though, I possess excellent research skills. That's how I found baclofen and mywayout --after a 90 day stint at an excellent rehab, going to AA meetings meetings multiple times a day, seven days a week, and living and breathing all things AA every day, multiple times a day for nine of the most miserable months of my life. And that's a bold statement considering how bad I was when I went into treatment in July of 2011.
I landed at the treatment center after every alcoholic mother's dream gig: I spend four months working on the beaches of the Gulf Coast, doing legal work for BP, for a ridiculous amount of money and ALL expenses paid --including a beach house, alcohol, extravagent dining, groceries, entertainment, mileage, and any other possible expense you can think of. I spent four months ALONE, with no children to tend to and no husband to pacify. I could drink when and how much I wanted to drink. I could go out when I wanted to go out. Sleep when I wanted to sleep. And fuck when I wanted to fuck. I had no dirty diapers to change. No repeated conversations with my husband about drinking. I had no one to take care of except myself. And I did a really horrible job.
I drank from the time I woke up until I blacked out at night, seven days a week, all while holding down a full-time job. I would drink on the job all throughout the day. I drove drunk every day. I had to go to the hospital four times. I was raped, beaten, and left for dead because I was too drunk to fight them off. I went to the ER and they had to put stitches in my bladder because they literally tore me up and punctured by organs. I did not tell anyone, my husband included, for about three months. By then, I had also been screwing around with my boss and a handful of other men.
When my husband could not get in touch with me one night, he got his "buddies" (more on this absurdity later) to trace all calls, emails, and texts. He found numerous messages from my boss and drove to the beach with all of our children to find out what was going on. When he got there, he confronted me. Only then did I tell him I was raped in some strange attempt to mitigate my inappropriate conduct. It didn't.
My husband begged me to come home and get some help. I refused. He packed up the children and left without me. Then, I knew I could never return home. And I set out to drink myself to death.
And I would have, unless I had divine intervention (I did), unwaivering support from my famly (had that too), and a strange, so-not-like-me admission of complete defeat to alcohol and willingness to finally get some help (yep, had this too).
The only reason I called my husband to come to the beach --after he left two months earlier --is because I was raped again in a blackout by at least two other men. How do I know this if I was in a blackout? I woke up naked in my beach house, lying on the foyer floor with the front door unlocked. My wrists were bruised with imprints of someone holding me down. My ankles were the same way. My neck also had bruises where it looked like I was severely strangled. Most telling, however, were the hidious bruises to my vaginal area and inner thighs and the excruciating internal pain that did not allow me to sit down without extreme pain to that area. I know who did: my next-door neighbor, the owner of both of our beach houses, and his best friend, who was my other boss (more on this later). Both men were approximately 6'5" or taller and weighed at least 300 pounds of pure muscle. They did a lot of damage to my 5'7", 120-pound body.
That night, I took a huge dose of Xanax coupled with a large amount of alcohol --fully intending not to wake up the next morning. I woke up. I was in such bad physical shape that I could not move. I called my husband and told him I needed him and would he please come back to the beach. He came without the boys this time. He had already started divorce proceedings after I refused to come home the last time he was down.
One day later, after another unspeakable act my me right in front of my husband's face, him leaving me to die at that beach house, and him driving halfway home and then feeling the overwhelming voice of God (coming from a man who never believed in Him until that day) telling him to go back and get his wife, I agreed to get help.
That's enough for today. I will post more later. Thanks for reading my story. I need to purge myself of all of the shame and guilt.
Thankfully though, I possess excellent research skills. That's how I found baclofen and mywayout --after a 90 day stint at an excellent rehab, going to AA meetings meetings multiple times a day, seven days a week, and living and breathing all things AA every day, multiple times a day for nine of the most miserable months of my life. And that's a bold statement considering how bad I was when I went into treatment in July of 2011.
I landed at the treatment center after every alcoholic mother's dream gig: I spend four months working on the beaches of the Gulf Coast, doing legal work for BP, for a ridiculous amount of money and ALL expenses paid --including a beach house, alcohol, extravagent dining, groceries, entertainment, mileage, and any other possible expense you can think of. I spent four months ALONE, with no children to tend to and no husband to pacify. I could drink when and how much I wanted to drink. I could go out when I wanted to go out. Sleep when I wanted to sleep. And fuck when I wanted to fuck. I had no dirty diapers to change. No repeated conversations with my husband about drinking. I had no one to take care of except myself. And I did a really horrible job.
I drank from the time I woke up until I blacked out at night, seven days a week, all while holding down a full-time job. I would drink on the job all throughout the day. I drove drunk every day. I had to go to the hospital four times. I was raped, beaten, and left for dead because I was too drunk to fight them off. I went to the ER and they had to put stitches in my bladder because they literally tore me up and punctured by organs. I did not tell anyone, my husband included, for about three months. By then, I had also been screwing around with my boss and a handful of other men.
When my husband could not get in touch with me one night, he got his "buddies" (more on this absurdity later) to trace all calls, emails, and texts. He found numerous messages from my boss and drove to the beach with all of our children to find out what was going on. When he got there, he confronted me. Only then did I tell him I was raped in some strange attempt to mitigate my inappropriate conduct. It didn't.
My husband begged me to come home and get some help. I refused. He packed up the children and left without me. Then, I knew I could never return home. And I set out to drink myself to death.
And I would have, unless I had divine intervention (I did), unwaivering support from my famly (had that too), and a strange, so-not-like-me admission of complete defeat to alcohol and willingness to finally get some help (yep, had this too).
The only reason I called my husband to come to the beach --after he left two months earlier --is because I was raped again in a blackout by at least two other men. How do I know this if I was in a blackout? I woke up naked in my beach house, lying on the foyer floor with the front door unlocked. My wrists were bruised with imprints of someone holding me down. My ankles were the same way. My neck also had bruises where it looked like I was severely strangled. Most telling, however, were the hidious bruises to my vaginal area and inner thighs and the excruciating internal pain that did not allow me to sit down without extreme pain to that area. I know who did: my next-door neighbor, the owner of both of our beach houses, and his best friend, who was my other boss (more on this later). Both men were approximately 6'5" or taller and weighed at least 300 pounds of pure muscle. They did a lot of damage to my 5'7", 120-pound body.
That night, I took a huge dose of Xanax coupled with a large amount of alcohol --fully intending not to wake up the next morning. I woke up. I was in such bad physical shape that I could not move. I called my husband and told him I needed him and would he please come back to the beach. He came without the boys this time. He had already started divorce proceedings after I refused to come home the last time he was down.
One day later, after another unspeakable act my me right in front of my husband's face, him leaving me to die at that beach house, and him driving halfway home and then feeling the overwhelming voice of God (coming from a man who never believed in Him until that day) telling him to go back and get his wife, I agreed to get help.
That's enough for today. I will post more later. Thanks for reading my story. I need to purge myself of all of the shame and guilt.
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