Taper.

I want to just stop:  Just stop drinking.

Then I kind of thought I should taper.

Ha.  What am I talking about?  I might be drunk right now.  Oh, how I wish I could be stronger.

Sam bought wine.  We drank far more than a tapering amount.  I didn't mean to.  I don't know what happened.

I thought this might be my first completely and totally sober day in a long time...  a year... but no...  I drank the wine.  I don't know how else to escape, you see, when I feel like I'm losing control.  I am terrified of what it will feel like to have no way to hide.  Yes, I know alcohol makes people lose control.  I guess alcohol does that to me... it numbs my feelings, and thoughts so I can't think them.  It takes over.  And I don't have to try so damn hard.  I hide behind that.  I hide and I feel better, even when I know I'm hurting my body in the long run.  I mean, my Calcium level was low: Lower than what is considered normal!  You know what can cause that?  Alcohol consumption.  I don't remember a day where I didn't drink this year.  What does that make me?  I don't even want to think about it.  I'm scared.

I'm scared.  I'm scared.  I'm scared.

Sam made a new desk.  He made a new desk and keeps adding things to it, like mounting the screen to the wall and adding a swinging wall lamp.  He likes it down there.  He has wanted a desk of his own forever. He has built endless desks, spending endless amounts of time at this work.  And there you go.  He did it. And he likes being there.  And I sit on the bed.

I was feeling better, I really was.  I was out of bed, and I didn't have any desire to be in it one bit.  I actually wandered around the house looking at everyone, and everything, wondering what I was "supposed" to be doing, because I was so used to being in the same place, in my spot on the bed, and I didn't know where else I belonged or how I fit into this life.

I'm Luteal/PMDD again, so I'm back in my spot.  I keep writing and writing and thinking and thinking and trying not to drink, and hoping I can be stronger than I have been so far.  I write in a journal.  I write in Google Docs, I write here.  I miss my art desk and sewing spot.  We moved it all to the basement for the holidays, to clean up the house...  I did have stuff everywhere:  Fabric, and pastels, and pins, and paint brushes.  I had one project, then another, and I...  it doesn't matter.

I'm tired.  I'm tired of this spot, and of PMDD, and of drinking.

I'm tired of hiding.

Help me.