It’s been a while since I’ve written anything on here. If I’m honest I’d lost my way a little with this blog. I’d started on one track, fell onto a different one, stepped over that one to another track and then ground to a halt somewhere I didn’t feel comfortable.
I lost my way. Which happens. I’m still trying to find it now if I’m honest. I’m yet again trying to impose a narrative upon myself as to how I’m ‘meant’ to be doing things. I’m ‘meant’ to be looking for the love of my life. I’m ‘meant’ to be becoming The Perfect Person In Recovery (which doesn’t exist FYI). I’m ‘meant’ to be losing all this weight. I’m ‘meant’ to be… what?
What am I meant to be? What are any of us meant to be? It’s Monday. I’m ‘meant’ to be starting a 5 day week. Aren’t I? Isn’t that what’s expected of us? Fit the mold and you’ll be happy. Get that job. Get that partner. Have the baby. Connect the lines. Cross the t’s and dot your i’s.
What if I don’t want to? What if I want to dot my t’s and cross my i’s. Crossing your eyes isn’t ladylike though. Don’t pull faces, it’s not attractive, no one will want you. Be a lady. Be small. Take up less space. Right now I am feeling an unfathomable amount of pressure to find someone to take up the space I’m meant to be vacating with my decreasing waist line.
I had a great discussion about this with my therapist yesterday on my Brain-Clean Sundays. We talked about this guy I’ve gone on a few dates with and, in all honesty, I’m trying to shoe-horn into my life. He doesn’t really drink. He’s outdoorsy. Tall. Conversation flows. He’ll do.
I am telling myself this is what sober life is. There’s no exciting weekends wrapped up in the sheets with a fit guy, snorting cocaine off each other’s body parts and ordering deliveroo after deliveroo of cheap red wine and cigarettes. In sober life when you date you have coffee, you go to the zoo, you don’t kiss until the third date. It’ll do.
I don’t want it’ll do. I don’t want to bloody settle. I’ve just got my life back after 17 years of alcohol and drug abuse, why the fuck am I rushing to settle? I have the chance to really live now. I have the money, the health and the sobriety to honestly do whatever the fuck I want.
So why am I chasing the notion of picket fences and 2.4 children? I am worried I’ll never have kids; I’ll be real about that. However I don’t want them right now, or any time soon. Yet all my life I’ve just assumed I’ll have kids in the future. My chances only get slimmer as I get older and I do feel the pressure of time growing ever stronger against me. The ‘future’ for having kids doesn’t seem all that far away these days.
Also, if I don’t have sproggs, who will look after me when I’m old? In the real world that’s no reason to have children. In the real world, I may never have children. Am I terrified of that being a regret I may have later in life? God yes. However my mother regretted having kids. Which is worse? Regretting not having them and having lots of money and free time or regretting having them and ruining their lives with the trauma of them being unwanted kids? I’ve been an unwanted kid and it sucks.
When you get sober you get your life back. You get your feelings back. Thats the beauty – and curse – of it. I’m scrabbling around trying to work out what my life is and in the panicked rummage I’m grabbing the nearest idea off the shelf and saying ‘that’ll do.’
I am not saying I want to be in bed, numb from the cocaine on my vagina (who’s idea was that?) breathing red wine breath, tangled up with a sweating stranger in my space. Yet I don’t want the mundanity of the opposite. What’s the middle ground and does it always have to involve another body?
In the realms of sobriety and recovery I am a baby. Months old. However here I am demanding my baby-self makes decisions of someone wise beyond my years. That’s not helping anyone. My life is mine to live, and mine only and I can only live it with the knowledge and tool kit I currently possess.
The decisions I make will only affect me, they will only be my regrets, they will only be my successes. I’m going to put the store-bought idea of ‘What A Woman In her Thirties Should Be Doing’ I picked up back on the shelf and have another look around. Try a different shop maybe.
So my sex life won’t be the rock and roll cocaine whirlwind I thought it was – when in reality it never was. That doesn’t mean I need to settle for dick that’s simply ‘fine’ just because I might want to have kids sometime in the future and dick – mediocre or otherwise – contains a key ingredient for said baby-making.
What is the plan then, Meg?
Well, today it’s: take it one day at a time and commit to no person, except myself, and no thing, except this blog – oh and recovery of course.
Don’t ever settle for mediocre dick. You owe yourself so much more.