Updated: Jan 25
I started to enjoy my freedom from my homelife responsibilities. I put miles on Betsy driving I85 North to see the kids; I felt like Eric deserved the stress of getting the kids dressed and ready for daycare and school. I still blamed him for my mental breakdown. In my mind, if he never pushed me over the edge, I would not have been in the state I was in. I would travel daily, even if it was to tuck them in at night. I never wanted them to feel like I had abandoned them. I was living in two very different worlds. I had dived right into the new age 'spirituality.' I felt like I was finding myself and I was not going to fit into the perfect facade; I had betrayed myself in the past. My newfound sobriety life and homelife were on opposite ends of the spectrum. I did not know back then how to combine the two. In sober living, I was not an outsider. I could openly talk about my addiction and mental health without judgment. It was refreshing. It felt good to be accepted and understood. I had lost my sense of identity along the way. After getting married and having my babies, I took a lot of pride in being the best wife and mother I could be. I felt a lot a pressure to be perfect; I wanted to make my family proud. I always heard the devil in my ear whispering...you will never be good enough. The words were cursed. My whole life I had felt like I needed to prove to the world I am enough. I remained chained to the lie.
At about 90 days sober, I was feeling lonely one afternoon and down on myself. I had wanted another tattoo with Jesus' name and mountains engraved on my left side ribs. It was raining, and I needed a dopamine fixed. What better day to do it, right? I looked up tattoo parlors close by. I was impulsive and probably a little manic. I was grasping for anything to give me a high. Ink made me feel pain. It made me feel something. Disturbing as it may sound, I was more comfortable living in chaos than peace. I was still very shut off from my feelings. I wanted to feel the adrenaline. Tattoos early in recovery were against my sober living rules. Obviously, for a good cause. I did not care. I felt like it was my body, and I could do as I pleased. I did. As I laid back on the chair, the needle placing piment into my skin, I felt relieved. It hurt so good. I was happy. I did not know it, but the mountains and Jesus' would significantly rein truth a few months later as I drove through the West Virginia mountains. I went to an AA meeting afterwards. Later returning back to my apartment, I receive a call from Davis (friend from rehab), that he was on his way to come see me. He relapsed. Could I spare a few dollars and come party?