Anxiously Awake

It's 1:14 a.m., and I find myself again, wide awake, the still of the night (cue Whitesnake) enveloping me like a heavy quilt. Not too long ago, this late-hour restlessness was a regular enemy, an incarnation of my body's persistent lust for alcohol. For the past three years, my sleep has become a different chaotic dance, disrupted by a typhoon of perimenopause, an undercurrent of fear, and the heavy weight of worry—all compounded by the emotional endeavor of protecting my daughter. But that's a story for another day.

As I sit here this morning, my heart races in my chest, a wild thing pounding against my ribs as if trying to escape. I'm nestled comfortably in a cozy hoodie with my hair tucked away, positioned in a crisscross apple sauce pose beneath my favorite blanket, a bubble of warmth and security. Pinching myself—my book is finally scheduled to be released next week.

Months have stretched into years since that first flicker of an idea ignited, envisioning a collection of blogs chronicling my journey through ten years of sobriety. The ambition of writing a book has loomed large in my mind, and now, it feels almost tangible, as if I'm standing on the edge of a great precipice, ready to leap into the unknown.

Yet, alongside this cautious excitement are my unwelcome companions: fear and worry lurk in the shadows while blasts of optimistic anxiety and motivation push me toward my next project. Sleep evades me.

I giggle to myself, recalling how my family used to tease me about the goofy poems I composed as a child, playfully written about boogers and farts. Obviously, there's been a bit of refinement in my subject matter. Still, those moments are treasured memories, especially when I scribbled while sitting unbuckled in the back of my dad's groovy red van during our road trips to Suttons Bay, Michigan—an almost sacred slice of heaven on earth.

After my parents' divorce in third grade, I felt a rousing impulse to write a children's book on divorce. In my young mind, I understood that others shared my silence, witnessing our seemingly perfect home unravel. I wished to speak up for my voiceless childhood pals enduring similar heartaches.

In 2001, my ambition shifted to a still unwritten project titled Mommy Metamorphosis, born from my horrifying battle with postpartum psychosis. It was a topic drenched in stigma, and I recall the moment I saw Tom Cruise on Oprah mocking women who met depression after childbirth. What an asshole; he became an actor I would actively ignore for years. My experiences were profound, and once again, I felt driven to offer solace or solidarity to other women navigating the intricacies of this nefarious reality.

Fast forward to 2017. Three years into my sobriety, the weight of shame surrounding my past drinking weighed heavily on me. I would hide in the humid confines of the laundry room, furtively downing hidden bottles of wine or stashing alcohol in my purse and car, desperate to avoid the cruel grip of withdrawal while out in public. The grim statistics of women succumbing to alcoholism haunted me.

A thought flashed in my mind: Could my story of recovery and resilience be a guiding light for others still struggling with addiction?

Now, here I am, perched at the brink of what feels like a lifelong dream about to unfold. This moment is brimming with pride, tempered by the familiar phantoms of self-doubt and imposter syndrome. I long to press that publish button and invite others into the sober journey captured within the pages of my book.

There is a more serious narrative woven into the last two years, as I dedicated myself to fleshing out my chapters, filling the spaces with the raw disposition of my struggle against alcoholism.

I can't claim that the turmoil we've endured since 2023 was a "gift"—to do so would diminish the honest pain that underlies those rough nights. Yet, I recognize that those sleepless hours, often spent in the eerie calm of 2 or 3 a.m., were moments of purpose. They allowed me to pour my heart onto page after page, editing and refining until the words felt right.

So, while I won't express gratitude for the evil that upended my nights, I do feel thankful for the subtle direction I received from my higher power—a guided effort to make the most of my darkest hours by channeling my emotions into words, allowing me to work my full-time job during the day.

One day, I will untangle the remainder of that "other" story. But for now, I'm counting the hours until I can finally hit the publish button on Amazon, a gateway to conveying my truth to the world.