Friday night I fell down a hole. Saturday morning I woke up and realized I was alone and broken. Physically and emotionally. Bleeding scalp, concussed head, and likely fractured jaw. The hangover was the least of my worries. The biggest question? Not how did this happen, but why did this happen?
All week I was looking forward to celebrating several business successes with my colleagues at a low-key, Friday night happy hour in our office. Friday arrived, food and wine served, and I started to celebrate with my colleagues and friends. A little too much. I was aware that I was drinking glass after glass, not even enjoying the white Spanish Albarino or the red Oregon Pinot Noir wines. No. I was knowingly drowning myself in alcohol. I drink socially, one or two glasses a week, to enjoy wine with food. Not like this. Not to the point of throwing up in the office bathroom, slipping and falling, hitting my head and back against the porcelain toilet, and blacking out.
Drowning my emotional pain. Separation. Divorce. Continuing bullying and controlling by my ex-wife. Estrangement from my 17-year old son. Watching him academically, athletically, socially, emotionally implode. Not being in his life as a parent and a father to lead, to coach, to love and support, and when necessary, to hold him accountable. Emotional pain combined with inability to control or change the outcome. With no end in sight. When would my ex-wife stop? When would my son want to re-connect? Would it be too late?
Friday night it all came to the surface, and the proverbial levee broke. Heading home from New York City to Connecticut on the Metro-North train, feeling physically and emotionally gross, just trying to survive until I could lock the apartment door behind me.
Waking up Saturday morning, hurting all over, realizing I was alone and broken.
Spending Sunday reflecting on the “why” behind what happened. And thinking about what’s next. Running through my emotional pain on the trails of Waveny Park. Baking chocolate croissants to run my hands through the flour and the butter.
Looking forward to Thursday’s weekly psychotherapy session with my therapist. Realizing that the journey that began June 9, 2018 is a work in progress. And there are good days, and not so good days.
Thank you for letting me put myself out there.