Wounds of the Heart - Part 2

~Three Zimas to the Wind~

My mother didn’t drink alcohol. At least, not very much in one sitting. She couldn’t get much of it down before falling asleep. Half a margarita and she was likely to pass out. So it was a rare occasion for her to have alcohol, and she was usually at home when she did. Margaritas were her favorite. I knew this about her and would use it to my advantage at times. One Friday night while I was still in high school I had her convinced that making herself a margarita and getting me some Zimas would be fun, and that we could watch her favorite show together, NYPD Blue, while we drank our respective beverages. 

Zima - not a Texas thing like Blue Bell ice cream, but for those not around during its 11-year production or its comeback, Zima was a clear, carbonated, citrus-flavored “malternative” that was super potent to a non drinker - 4.7% potent. They came in four packs then. It was sophisticated to an 18 year old. Holding that bottle was different from holding a can or bottle of regular beer; it was a pretty bottle in my opinion and an unusual drink. It felt cool, this weird beer. It was also thrilling to be in the liquor store with my mother as we searched for the mixes and beer; it was uncharted territory for me. I felt completely out of place but didn’t care. This was a whole new world to me, and I was excited about the night and its possibilities.

I didn’t drink either. At least, not very much in one sitting. But I was 18 and a senior in high school, and to me the night sounded fun. My entire high school career I heard about all the parties the popular kids went to and all the fun they had playing drinking games, having sex with each other, and all the other memories they created without me and my small group of friends. And in my 18-year-old mind I was recreating the drinking part at home with my mother, so it was the safer scenario for myriad reasons. I knew we’d both only drink a little and fall asleep quickly.

I was right, halfway through her margarita my mother fell asleep in her chair. I changed the channel to a TV show I enjoyed more and kept drinking. It felt good to me, the effects of Zima, so I didn’t want to stop. It wasn’t the first time I had alcohol, but it was the first time it had an effect on me that I enjoyed. The other times I drank - which were few - it was regular beer, and that never affected me positively; they tasted awful, so I never had many at one time. But this time was different. I made it through three of the four Zimas. It was thrilling. I felt good, better than good, and I liked how I felt - care-free, lightly euphoric, super relaxed. The dopamine was in full swing, and I knew that I would enjoy this relationship just as much as I enjoyed my relationship with sugar.

~Having Fun~

Even from an early age my mother gave me the freedom to make my own choices; she had always trusted me. Very rarely did I ever give her a reason not to. Being a good kid looked good on me, and I valued her trust. The summer after graduation I tested her trust, though not out of malice or ill intention. I'd be leaving for college soon and wanted to see how far I could stretch the boundaries of her trust. I started doing things I’d never done as a high school kid. I lied to her about my whereabouts on occasion; I drove to the nearest city an hour away to go to bars and dance clubs; I started smoking cigarettes; I latched onto a man that was 6 years older than me and called him my boyfriend, and I started drinking more regularly. I felt cool, all grown up. The life I was living felt like the life I should have already been living - free to choose for myself and do whatever I wanted. So I did. To some degree I figured she knew and was okay with it.

The prospect of leaving for college at the end of the summer and being on my own was very empowering. I worried about nothing; I feared nothing. I had everything I wanted and thought I needed. I never thought about the upcoming season of my new life except that it would be exciting and fun. I looked forward to it being away from where I grew up, away from my past and the memories that it inhabited. I thought about what I was leaving behind, not where I was going or what I would take with me. That’s how I treated that summer - I just did what I wanted when I wanted and made all of my decisions based on how much fun I thought I’d have. I felt happy, like real life was finally starting and I didn't have the burden of high school and the life it entailed.

Despite feeling free to do as I chose, paradoxically, I felt trapped within myself. I didn't know what was happening inside of me, and it was too much for me to handle. Memories of losing my dad years earlier kept trying to surface. Not wanting to relive his death, I buried the memories. I was confused about who I was, and the question of where I was going nagged at me. I couldn't clarify either, so I left them both unanswered and buried them on top of memories of my father's absence. Listening to my friends plan their college careers left me empty and lacking because I didn't have a plan. I had no vision for the school I'd be attending, much less my life, and was ashamed to admit it. I hated how that felt. So that got buried too. All the things I couldn't face were buried, and covering it all up and pretending it wasn’t there became the temporary and the long term plan. I was starting to figure out that alcohol could help me with that. It loosened the shackles of the trap and gave me a way of escape. I just wanted to continue feeling happy and having fun and not be forced to think about things. That's all I cared about.

~Feelings~

I started drinking more consistently with my boyfriend that summer. Sometimes that was all we did, sit around and drink. None of my girlfriends ever cared for alcohol, so I felt shameful and guilty if I drank around them. I like to think they knew better. Some actually chose not to because they disliked the taste. That never occurred to me - to choose not to do something because I didn’t like it, especially if the end result would be fun. I called it tolerance, a willingness to endure the bad for the good. With the exception of my boyfriend, the people I hung out with were the exact opposite of me in pretty much all the ways. They were grounded and level-headed. They made choices based on morals. They looked to the future with plans and optimism. They didn’t seem to have memories they felt compelled to escape. These were all qualities I admired. But that was it for me, distant admiration to be more like them. Instead I drank.

I continued seeking the same high I experienced from the night with my mother. I didn’t like drinking just for the euphoric feeling though. I was searching for a way to permanently become someone other than myself. And I figured out that I could be that someone when I drank - someone who didn’t have a past full of pain and disappointment, someone who was worthy and good enough, someone who - ironically - had a future full of hope and success. Because even though those were all perfectly feasible thoughts for a normal, privileged, young adult, they didn’t reside in my head. It wasn't the same impressive pedestal my friends all stood on that I was reaching for. They were sober and embodied those characteristics. The probability of reaching that same bar was not likely for me. I didn't have any particular person in mind that I wanted to be; I was just aiming for not being me.

I didn’t grow up in a house with hope as a mindset or with encouragement from others. I always felt confused about who I was and acted out like the uncontrollable, neurotic teenager I was. I always felt unworthy and not good enough and constantly worried about being left behind. And every idea of success I had was always squashed with reason and practicality from whomever I expressed those dreams to. Ultimately the confusion, neurosis, and unworthiness latched onto me and became my identity, and I learned I didn’t have to feel those things or be that person if I drank enough. I was fun when I drank, sometimes.

~On Repeat~

Drinking got a full, two-handed grip on me when I finally got to college. I moved from Texas to Louisiana to go to school, and back then people could legally drink at age 18. I lived in a dorm, had a car, was 18, and loved to drink. I had no one telling me not to, no one telling me there were far better choices to make like doing good in school, being intentional about my future, having a plan for my life. Everyone probably thought I already knew all those things and would act accordingly. I did know all of those things but certainly did not act accordingly. I drank all the time. It felt better than acknowledging that I didn't know what else to do. I still struggled internally; the only thing different was the scenery. I still felt alone and confused; I was definitely still neurotic and out of control. What's worse is that no one I knew back in Texas knew what I was doing, and no one in Louisiana cared as long as I showed up for class and made it back to the dorm before curfew.

I didn’t much like living in a dorm; it didn’t fit me, my spoiled self. So when my boyfriend suggested he move closer and get an apartment, I was all over the idea. I had done my time in a dorm (one semester), and not having my own space when I had just come from a bedroom the size of a two-car garage coupled with the necessity of wearing flip flops to take a shower was more than I could handle. So we got an apartment together. I trusted him because quite frankly I didn’t know any better. He was my first serious relationship; I was new to being away from home, and still fairly new to drinking. And now I was going to live off campus and discontinue my first year at college as a “normal” freshman with a man who drank excessively and I would later find out was addicted to drugs. All because I could, and it sounded fun.

In the middle of my second semester I dropped out because things weren’t going well with my new beau, and I had changed my mind about the school I was attending.  Moving to Colorado because I liked to ski seemed like a fun thing to do and was a way to escape the life I had in Louisiana and the person I was sharing it with. I could leave the disaster that I had created and start anew somewhere else. Again. Because that’s what I did - if things stopped being fun or I found that I wasn’t actually succeeding at the thing, I left. I dropped it and sought to start over. Running away was the primary solution to any problem in my opinion. Whatever it took, as long as I didn't get hurt in the process, that's what I did. Quit. Run. Drink. Repeat. And not necessarily in that order.

~Cloak of Defeat~

For the next 15 years of my life I moved from state to state, school to school, person to person - all without success, all without follow-through. I did all of this by myself, despite who was with me. I was always alone in my chaotic mind and lived purely in survival mode. I either quasi-tried some things or just reacted to the things I got myself into. Never a real vision or a plan. I used to say I was flailing around like a fish out of water because that's what it felt and looked like. That’s why I kept drinking. I couldn't figure anything out; I couldn't figure out which way to go. I never completed anything; I always gave up too quickly because it got too hard, or I got bored because it wasn't hard enough. And it was all too daunting, too impossible, to try to figure out. So I relied on alcohol. Alcohol washed away the impossible and gave me a place to rest and a false sense of security. Plus I got to be someone else as its partner.

From that point on I stepped into everything ‘knowing’ I would fail, ‘knowing’ I wouldn’t be good enough, and that I would quit before I succeeded. It was like I draped self-defeat over me like a cloak that was woven with threads of unworthiness and desperation; it became something I instinctively reached for as I got dressed in the morning. It was a subconscious thought that would actualize everyday, day after day. And everyday I became what I feared most - truly not good enough. I didn’t know how to stop it from blanketing me because I wasn’t conscious of it. It all ran so deep and had such a stronghold on me that it just became who I was. I drank because I wanted to be free from it all. Ironically I would've been free from it all had I quit drinking. I was the epitome of a Catch-22.

~Healing~

Childhood trauma manifests in people in countless ways: they put up walls, make bad choices, do bad things, let go of themselves - to name a few. My life was in total ruins. I had been telling myself lies for a very long time, lies that became my identity and my reality. No one told me any differently because no one knew what I was telling myself. Not even me. So there's no blame intended in the account of my past. It's just the way it was. Nowadays, I prefer to take the recollection of memories and emotions and funnel them into a much more productive belief system. I believe there’s always a possibility to come back from ruins if we're willing. I've seen it in others, and I've done it for myself. It took me a lifetime, but I was willing, and I did come back. And I'm glad I did because of what I've gained from it. To me, that's a better way to heal.

Being willing to heal means different things to different people. It could mean seeking out others to talk to, finding safe spaces to take refuge in, joining support groups. To me it meant doing all of those because I was so desperate. Most importantly for me healing meant finding the Lord and being willing to cultivate a deep, real relationship with Him. Because ultimately it was Him who brought me back, His love for me. It's like the Parable of the Prodigal Son in the Bible. It was the boy's father that welcomed him back unconditionally and celebrated his return - no questions, just a huge party. I'm reminded of the story because of how my heavenly Father welcomed me back with open arms, without condemnation or blame, unconditionally, no questions asked, just a huge party. Because that's who He is. He is the one that showed me that I am in fact worthy and good enough. He loved me before I could love myself.

He helped me see that I could let go of who I identified with and take off the cloak. He wanted to heal the wounds of my heart. Because that's also who He is. I needed Him so that I could find a way to love and be open to being loved again. That's the only way I would heal, through love. That was something I had to learn over time. I'm still learning. There's a lot to let go of, a lot that needs healing, but there's also a lot to love. I'm not where I want to be, but I'm certainly not where I used to be either. That's progress; that's growth. That's my willingness to lean in and admit I deserve to be loved right where I am, to be rescued... to be found.

We had to celebrate this happy day. For your brother was dead and has come back to life! He was lost, but now he is found! ~Luke 15:32 (NLT)