The hopeless and hopeful.

A month and a half ago, I wanted to slit my wrists.  To feel something different.   Something.   Anything. 

I hated waking up hungover.  I hated dealing with my kids whining and crying and arguing.  I hated my husband checking out when they were his kids...leaving me to deal with it all.  I hated that I was drinking nearly every night because I didn't want to deal with it.  I hated that I couldn't remember anything from the previous night.

I hated that I felt so hopeless and lost and worthless and taken advantage of and run over and dead inside,  that all my attempts to stop drinking on my own were for naught. 

I had no hope for myself. 

Then,  through the act of divine intervention,  I finally said I needed help.  And I got it.  But not in the way I wanted.  But what I wanted didn't matter at this point.   It was what I needed. 

I cried throughout my first meeting.   And most of my second.  But something I hadn't felt in such a long time happened.   I started to feel alive.  I started to feel hope.  I started to feel like I could actually learn how to live.  How to fly.  How to have hope and be happy.   Hope that I could be a better mom for my kids.  Hope I could be a better wife and daughter and sister and employee.  And friend.  Aunt.  Cousin.  A better person. 

I HAVE hope.  I FEEL alive.  I still would like a drink, but I feel so blessed to be sober and actually living, I am not going to waste this new life on feeling hopeless ever again .