I’m a moody bird. I laugh pretty loudly most of the time. I tear up sometimes, though I’m still not fond of crying. I flip flop on my decisions with a perverse dedication to the truth as I see it, albeit on a moment’s notice. I’m consistent about my inconsistencies as a person. And I’m ok with that. I guess.
An alcoholic (maybe?) friend of mine coined the term “bottomless memotions” while we discussed what I like to call “past naughties.” He (or she, I can’t remember) reminisced about the times bottomless mimosas were his fuckin scene back in the day. I remember going to brunch solely for the purpose of drinking orange-flavored champagne. Nothing else would have motivated me to get out of bed on the weekends before 4pm, certainly not eggs benedict. I traded in my no-need-to-count-them mimosas for an endless supply of “catch me if you can” emotions. Like I’ve said before, I have a lot of feelings–all of which seem to surface simultaneously. As it turns out, there was a bottom to those mimosas and I hit it, hard. Or it hit me, with feeling this time.
Ten years worth of drinking my moody blues caught up to me when I got sober. I’m not saying officially that I was a train wreck, but I’ve been prettier. However, I was a sight for my own sore eyes. I was finally able to look at myself in the mirror without wanting to take off running. I saw myself in ruins, ready to get recovered. One of my sober buddies warned me that I would experience certain withdrawal symptoms, including erratic displays of emotion. I was relieved to hear this, due to the fact that I was convinced I had become a sociopath when I was still active in my alcoholism. I stopped caring about what my behavior was doing to me or anyone else in my life. Then the drinking stopped and I suddenly checked in. Once sobriety showed up, I experienced what is known as Post Acute Withdrawal Syndrome (PAWS). According to the world wide web, PAWS symptoms–like anxiety and sudden mood swings–last up to two years. Looks like I’ll be a pseudo-hot mess for another seven months or so. Buckle up, betches.
And so it goes. I have more precision with how I feel at others 16.64 months into recovery. I practice letting my initial reactions pass before I worry about what the fuck is wrong with me. I’ve stopped expecting people to understand why I feel how I do, including myself. My sponsor reminds me that I am human. It turns out that humans are capable of feeling all sorts of things. While I wish this weren’t the case most of the time, I am also grateful I have the capacity to feel compassion for myself and for others, particularly those I don’t understand. For me, the goal is always to achieve and maintain neutrality. I inch closer to emotional homeostasis every time I pause while agitated. The good news is, I am not all that agitated anymore. Except when I run out of seltzer water or coffee–that just cannot fly.
As for those recovery memotions–keep ’em comin.
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