trying my worst

the person most of us struggle to forgive is ourselves

Content warning: this piece contains descriptions of binging, purging, and substance abuse.

Author owned photo (2024)

I can’t remember the last morning I didn’t wake and bake, yet here we are. It’s the first day of IOP, and I don’t want people to get the wrong impression.

I drive to Virginia Beach white knuckled, marveling how the unspoken rule here seems to be going 20 miles above the speed limit. The prospect of making this drive three times a week is not pleasant. My brain starts looking for an excuse to dip out.

It’s just IOP, I think. I’ve done this before. What can they teach me that I don’t know? How can they help someone who doesn’t even want it?

Stop right there, scolds my inner voice. You know why you’re doing this. Part of you does want it.

Whatever you say.

More than once while driving, my hand instinctively reaches for the vape I normally keep in the driver’s door. Today I left it at home. Not because I have a problem or anything—I’m just too lazy and poor to buy a new one.

I park in front of the behavioral health building and wait for the song to finish playing before going inside. I’m 20 minutes early. The sun is already blinding. Again, I reach for a vape that isn’t there.

It’s going to be a long day. On top of everything, my bangs are driving me crazy. Summers in Virginia are not kind to my hair.

In group, we discuss abstinence versus harm reduction. Our facilitator makes it clear that this program prefers patients to be Clean and Sober™.

I’m not sure if I agree with the abstinence only approach, I venture. Harm reduction feels more realistic.

We understand where you’re coming from, replies the facilitator with a smile. It’s our hope that you can start slow and maybe work your way there with the help of the tools we give you.

I shut up and soon find myself disassociating. On break in my car, I blink back tears of frustration. What am I doing? I don’t seem to want recovery, or else I wouldn’t be actively abusing substances while enrolled in a program dedicated to fighting addiction.

Every morning hereafter, I have to answer “Were you able to remain abstinent from substances?” with a “no” because I’m still smoking weed and taking Benadryl. It feels awkward, and I fear judgement. But I won’t lie anymore. All I can promise is that I’ll keep showing up.

No amount of treatment has convinced me to stop. I’m trying to keep my expectations low.

My inner voice is right. I do want to want to get better. I just don’t want to work.

It’s my day off from IOP and therapy. I wake at 5:30AM, stumble into the kitchen to feed the cats, and stumble back into bed. My sheets are damp with sweat despite the AC blasting through the night. I fall back into a fevered half sleep.

The next time I leave bed, it’s nearly 11. I feel hungover. My limbs are heavy, energy nonexistent, and panic courses through my veins.

How many Benadryl did I take the night before? 10? 11? It must have been after smoking weed and journaling in the park. (I’m beginning to realize that weed—for me, anyway—may be a gateway drug after all. Just not a gateway to what people would expect.)

While I wait for my shower to get hot, I notice my new vape has leaked overnight. In a burst of resolve, I take it, along with the bottle of e-juice, into the kitchen and hurl them into the automatic trash can.

Bam! Catharsis.

As I shower, I imagine my old self disappearing into the drain along with my soap suds. This is the start of a new chapter—I can feel it.

Take advantage of this, urges my inner voice. Take your bottle of Benadryl to the dumpster. Dump every last pill you have. Then you’ll be free.

Isn’t it enough that I threw away my vape? I argue. Now I deserve to take it easy. Celebrate. Chill.

I put on a new show and roll a joint. I’m getting good at it. Then I start eating.

First, a smoothie, then pretzels, then chocolate, an apple with peanut butter, more pretzels. It doesn’t set off my binging alarm bells—at least, not at first. I take breaks to play my keyboard and scroll on my phone.

Go outside, I keep telling myself. But the screen keeps moving and my butt stays glued to my seat. When my mom makes her daily call to check up on me, I come across as rushed.

I’ll let you get back to your show, she says. This makes me feel guilty and embarrassed. Aren’t I allowed to have a day without doing anything or talking to anyone or feeling guilty about it?

I eat more.

Later, once I’m thoroughly disgusted with myself, I decide to prepare for a bike ride, then wonder if I should walk instead. I get distracted while trying to choose which bag to bring, since the bag I bring will depend on whether I walk or ride a bike. Whether I walk or ride a bike is determined by the weather. The weather keeps changing its mind, and so do I.

Instead of leaving, I end up watching three more episodes of the TV show. I eat the rest of the pretzels, then chase them with two Italian ices (150 calories each). I then realize that not only have I not exercised today, but I’ve once again fallen prey to the binge-restrict cycle.

What did you expect would happen? my inner voice says. You’ve barely eaten the past three days.

I don’t pay my inner voice any attention because I am pouring granola and almond milk into a mug and slurping it down in front of my computer. I’m only half following the plot of this scene. I’m too busy hating myself for being an enabler.

After purging, I take 11 Benadryl. Or was it 12? It must have been 11, since I took 10 the night before. I think I am being responsible for increasing my dose slowly.

Do you even hear yourself? sighs my inner voice.

Hey, at least I’m thinking about quitting, I counter. That’s new.

I see you’re vaping again.

My inner voice has called me out. I don’t have any excuses for digging through the trash for my vape, yet that is exactly what I’ve done.

I’ll quit once this coil burns out, I promise myself.

I smoke a little and pop a hydroxyzine before leaving for Virginia Beach on Monday morning. The latter is for anxiety, and I’m feeling anxious. I don’t want to admit how badly I fucked up over the weekend.

The topic of the day is forgiveness. Who do we struggle to forgive?

One of us, a man in his late 40s, lost his 15 year-old daughter at the hands of a 19 year-old gunman. It was an act of randomness. He struggles to forgive the young man who pulled the trigger. How couldn’t he?

None of us can fathom such pain. The person most of us struggle to forgive is ourselves.

By the time we’re dismissed at noon, the hydroxyzine has hit and I’m struggling to stay awake. I’m also hungry despite having a smoothie at home and a protein bar in my car on break. I decide that I’ll eat a quick, light lunch when I get home. Then I’ll let myself nap.

What actually happens is that I remember that I have leftover binge food from last night—two cookies, a third of a bag of chips, and an entire pack of flour tortillas.

The tortillas are especially incriminating. In the past, I’d warm a stack of them in the microwave and dip them straight into the tub of vegan butter. The more butter I used, the easier they came up.

I don’t want to write about the rest of the afternoon. It was disappointingly predictable.

Am I trying to kill myself? Or am I trying to live? I can’t answer either with any certainty.

I bike to the park and write for awhile. There’s Benadryl in my purse. I know I will probably take some after journaling. Then I will bike downtown and watch the sun set. My plan is to wear myself out.

Part of me wants to run out of Benadryl and not buy another bottle. I keep telling myself to keep tapering so it won’t be as hard when I quit “for good”. The problem is that I don’t trust myself to stick to the plan.

Do you need trust or forgiveness? asks my inner voice.

At this point, “forgiveness” feels synonymous with “enabling”. I can’t see a clean slate without imagining what new mess I can manifest into being. Where some might be grateful for a fresh start, I’m restless for new opportunities to fuck myself over.

I know that clean slates are wasted on me because nothing has changed. I’m keeping myself broken; therefore, I don’t deserve forgiveness.

Wow, says my inner voice. You still have a long way to go.

In a world where everyone is just trying their best, I seem to be trying my worst.

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