Shame Series: Drunkologues

I’m a recovering alcoholic. When I go to meetings, I hear people laughing about all the chaos drinking caused, or whining all the turmoil it caused. I’m not saying this is right or wrong. It just is. It just bugs me. In fact, it bothers me to the point where I will leave to go to the restroom. I just think to myself, if he tells the story of peeing on himself one more time, I’ll leave and never come back. It’s so bad, I asked my boyfriend not to regale his drunken youth.

 Apparently, some people had fun drinking. I had fun, too, I guess, until I reached that point where trying to keep the fun became sloppy, mean, and embarrassing. I was either a fun drunk: dancing naked on table and easy or screaming out all the anger I held inside me. Basically, I either fucked you or I fucked you up. I don’t find any fun in this.

They say someday I won’t regret my past. I can’t say that regret is the right word. Regret means you would change things and changing the past brings up a whole other can of worms about God, Karma, etc. I say the word is shame. I am ashamed of my past, especially in regard to my drinking.

Tonight my dad was telling me a funny drunk story. I said that I didn’t have any funny drunk stories, that all mine were pitiful stories. He said that the difference is just an outlook. He went on to say that he takes responsibility for his sordid drunken past, but he let go of the shame. I realized that I have taken so much responsibility that it has gone beyond just that. I’m holding so tightly to the awfulness that I can’t let go. I can’t give myself a break. I can’t let go of the shame.

What is my part in my past? Mostly me. What is my part in the future? Mostly God and me. 

Shame is a big part of my make-up. It is what drives that part in my head that makes me shoot myself in the foot. I’ll be blogging a lot about shame. Please feel free to join me in the conversation. Maybe we can help each other.

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