Ok, I actually miss the rehab bubble a lot.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to go back. Or what I really mean is that I don’t want to have a reason to go back.
It’s early days and I’m not doing all the right things, nor am I doing all the wrong things. I’m doing very little except going to meetings.
I also have a cold and that’s wearing me down (it’s obviously some form of man flu).
But it feels like despite the fact that I’m not doing much other than going to meetings, life itself is wearing me down.
Being in rehab is really like being in a protective bubble: alarm didn’t go off? Someone will wake you up. Breakfast? Lunch? Dinner? All cooked for you. Your daily life? Organised.
In rehab, you are surrounded by a team of people who are there to support you, and who understand what you’re going through because they’ve gone through it themselves.
Most importantly, most thoughts outside of recovery are taken care of for you.
I miss that. A lot.
Don’t get me wrong: Mrs. M is supportive. My friends are supportive. I have support from fellowship people and alcohol service people and my therapist. No shortage of support here.
But there’s no protection from reality, either. I have to think about laundry. Cooking. What time my meetings are and how I’m going to get there.
These are tiny, insignificant thoughts but they each take up some form of mental energy.
Then there are the BIG THINGS to think about: debt, health, relationship repair…I am keeping those thoughts at bay for now because I definitely don’t have the energy for that. Yet.
I wasn’t prepared for how exhausted I would feel once I got out, man flu or not.
Case in point:
I thought I should write about how I’m feeling, because writing makes me feel better and this seemed like a logical and healthy alternative to my former coping mechanism, which was necking 200ml of vodka all in one go.
As a result, I have burned tonight’s dinner of chilli con carne. It’s not even real chilli con carne…it’s the result of a pre-mixed seasoning packet added to some meat, tomatoes and beans.
All I had to do was stir.
I didn’t stir.
I FUCKING FORGOT TO STIR AND THAT WAS ALL THAT WAS REQUIRED OF ME TO MAKE DINNER.
I am five days out of rehab and adding the act of stirring to my day has caused carnage. Chilli con carnage.
(Oh, that was a damn good pun if I do say so myself.)
My pun has made me feel better. I knew writing would help.
But I still miss the bubble…