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R 84 min Horror, Thriller. A man teaches a young woman how to become a complete weapon. Later she is approached by a group of sadistic teens who kill blonde women for unknown reasons.

The hunting season begins. Votes: 14, R 95 min Horror. On Christmas Eve, an escaped maniac returns to his childhood home, which is now a sorority house, and begins to murder the sorority sisters one by one.

R min Crime, Drama, Thriller. A small-time conman has torn loyalties between his estranged mother and new girlfriend, both of whom are high-stakes grifters with their own angles to play.

Not Rated 97 min Drama. A dramatization of the shocking Barbara Daly Baekeland murder case, which happened in a posh London flat on Friday 17 November The bloody crime caused a stir on both sides of the Atlantic and remains one of the most memorable American Tragedies PG min Drama, Thriller.

Set against the backdrop of the succession of Queen Elizabeth I and the Essex rebellion against her. Not Rated min Comedy, Crime, Drama.

Bubby has spent thirty years trapped in the same small room, tricked by his mother. One day, he manages to escape, and, deranged and naive in equal measures, his adventure into the modern and nihilistic life begins.

Votes: 12, R 94 min Crime, Drama, Horror. A young man held prisoner by a cab-driving serial killer must make a life or death choice between following in his captor's footsteps or breaking free.

Votes: 16, Not Rated 83 min Action, Drama, History. Votes: 1, Unrated min Comedy, Drama. About to stay a summer internship, promising young medical student at MIT, Raymond's mother, Susan, breaks her leg.

Housebound and immobile, his father, Tom, makes Raymond stay home and Director: David O. TV-MA 95 min Documentary.

A look at a plethora of pornographic films ranging from the s to the s and a commentary about their lasting impacts on the adult industry and the world.

Votes: R min Drama, War. NC min Drama, Romance. When his father dies, a young man is introduced by his attractive, amoral mother to a world of hedonism and depravity.

R min Comedy, Drama. As France is nearing the end of the first Indochina War, an open-minded teenage boy finds himself torn between a rebellious urge to discover love, and the ever-present, almost dominating affection of his beloved mother.

Unrated 89 min Drama, Thriller. A father driven into desire, a son coveting that of his father's, and the sorrowful maternity that hovers them into tragedy.

Votes: 4, R min Drama. While touring in Italy, a recently-widowed American opera singer has an incestuous relationship with her year-old son to help him overcome his heroin addiction.

Not Rated min Drama. Rescued from abandonment and raised by the King and Queen, Oedipus is still haunted by a prophecy--he'll murder his father and marry his mother.

Votes: 5, Not Rated min Crime, Drama. A loan shark is forced to reconsider his violent lifestyle after the arrival of a mysterious woman claiming to be his long-lost mother.

Justine Koo Stark wishes to remain innocent and virginal, but instead slips into a life of debauchery, torture, whipping, slavery and salaciousness.

Meanwhile, her brazen, flirtatious and Not Rated min Drama, History, Horror. During the Prussian army's invasion to Poland in , a young Polish nobleman, Jakub is saved from the imprisonment by a stranger who wants in return to obtain a list of his fellow A story centered around a group of self-destructive skateboarders in Paris.

PG 87 min Comedy, Crime. A duke dies and leaves the title and wealth to his adult son. But who's the real son: the found baby raised in USA or the abandoned baby raised by a Hindi family in London?

Comedy follows. After struggling to find employment, Amanda takes a hotel position in a small town where she ends up fighting for her life.

Who's watching Oliver tells the story of a mentally unstable loner lost in a life forced upon him. By night Oliver aimlessly wanders the streets and bars on what can only be described as a R 90 min Action, Comedy.

A clueless Trojan general must meet an unbeatable Greek warrior on the battlefield. Votes: 2, R 86 min Horror. Two deranged brothers, who are under the domineering influence of their crazed mother, kidnap young girls and keep them captive in chains in their basement, where they subject them to depraved "games" that often end in torture and murder.

PG min Crime, Horror, Mystery. A forensic psychologist Collette is tasked with determining whether or not a minor should face murder charges for killing his schoolmate.

Misaki Amemiya is an assistant inspector for the Metropolitan Police Department's Community Safety Bureau who becomes ensnared in a trap while investigating a mysterious illegal video Not Rated 92 min Horror, Mystery.

Michael is a successful actor, but he has a scandal in his past: at a tender age he knifed his father to death. He and his girlfriend Deborah go to his mother's for the weekend, and are Unrated 98 min Comedy, Drama, Romance.

Around midnight, a young couple and their transvestite maid prepare for an orgy. A visual incursion into the troubles psyche of a young boy whose unstable and manipulative mother committed suicide in front of him.

But in following Gabe's lead, I learned and saw things that, had I had my druthers, would have eluded me. I grudgingly agreed to re-jigger our itinerary for the twice-weekly tour of United Record Pressing in Nashville.

It turned out to be utterly riveting: Not only did we learn how records are made, from tiny vinyl pellets to grooves in a finished album, but we watched operators work the same archaic machines -- they smelled like burning rubber -- that pressed every Motown single and has continued to churn out thousands of albums a day ever since.

The upstairs was a revelation: the s frozen in time, including a party room with "pleather" sofas frequented by giants like Smokey Robinson and the Supremes.

But that history had a sobering side: Hauntingly preserved down to the blonde wood paneling, the company's "Motown Suite" was an apartment created for visiting Motown artists and black record executives who weren't allowed in downtown hotels.

By the time Mississippi rolled around we'd established a road rhythm: I was responsible for us not getting into an accident and Gabe was in charge of the soundtrack Paul Simon as we headed to Graceland, early B.

King as we headed to the superb B. If not exactly a buddy movie -- there were moments when I felt like the chauffeur to Gabe's Miss Daisy -- watching my son doze in the car, as he did as a baby, made me realize how much I have come to rely on his calm, steady presence, so different from my own too-frequent panic.

I thought about the sound of his electric guitar emanating from his upstairs lair, and how, every night as I crawl into bed, I have to ask him to turn the amplifier down.

I considered the melancholy quiet sure to envelop our household when he leaves for college. In the Delta, where the state Blues Commission has erected over markers of important sites, we went in search of three of Gabe's heroes -- Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters and B.

We drove the hallowed byways, the red clay soil scattered over the two-lane blacktop, stopping at Clarksdale juke joints and the Delta Blues Museum, its centerpiece a restored version of Muddy Waters's wood-plank cabin from nearby Stovall.

In Indianola, where weeds now poke through the sidewalk, we stood on the corner of Church Street, once a hopping hub on Saturday night after a hard week in the fields -- and where a teenage B.

King had played. We listened to Robert Johnson as we headed east down Highway 82 toward Greenwood, past catfish farms and the occasional McMansion.

A faint wisp of moon hovered over the soybean fields. Our destination was the Little Zion church, where Johnson, one of the most influential and revered blues musicians of all time, lies in a humble cemetery alive with dragonflies and twisted vines.

Both Johnson's life and his death are the stuff of lore; he died in at age 27 with some suggesting he was poisoned by a jealous husband.

We walked through tall grasses, reading worn headstones embedded in the cracked earth. Unlike more tourist-friendly stops, he noted, the significant feature -- Robert Johnson's grave -- wasn't clearly marked.

If I had intended to impart a life lesson, I couldn't have done better than the one he found himself. Years from now, I hope he will carry it and maybe a few of our miles with him -- an indelible groove, like a well-played record.

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A man teaches a young woman how to become a complete weapon. Later she is approached by a group of sadistic teens who kill blonde women for unknown reasons.

The hunting season begins. Votes: 14, R 95 min Horror. On Christmas Eve, an escaped maniac returns to his childhood home, which is now a sorority house, and begins to murder the sorority sisters one by one.

R min Crime, Drama, Thriller. A small-time conman has torn loyalties between his estranged mother and new girlfriend, both of whom are high-stakes grifters with their own angles to play.

Not Rated 97 min Drama. A dramatization of the shocking Barbara Daly Baekeland murder case, which happened in a posh London flat on Friday 17 November The bloody crime caused a stir on both sides of the Atlantic and remains one of the most memorable American Tragedies PG min Drama, Thriller.

Set against the backdrop of the succession of Queen Elizabeth I and the Essex rebellion against her. Not Rated min Comedy, Crime, Drama.

Bubby has spent thirty years trapped in the same small room, tricked by his mother. One day, he manages to escape, and, deranged and naive in equal measures, his adventure into the modern and nihilistic life begins.

Votes: 12, R 94 min Crime, Drama, Horror. A young man held prisoner by a cab-driving serial killer must make a life or death choice between following in his captor's footsteps or breaking free.

Votes: 16, Not Rated 83 min Action, Drama, History. Votes: 1, Unrated min Comedy, Drama. About to stay a summer internship, promising young medical student at MIT, Raymond's mother, Susan, breaks her leg.

Housebound and immobile, his father, Tom, makes Raymond stay home and Director: David O. TV-MA 95 min Documentary. A look at a plethora of pornographic films ranging from the s to the s and a commentary about their lasting impacts on the adult industry and the world.

Votes: R min Drama, War. NC min Drama, Romance. When his father dies, a young man is introduced by his attractive, amoral mother to a world of hedonism and depravity.

R min Comedy, Drama. As France is nearing the end of the first Indochina War, an open-minded teenage boy finds himself torn between a rebellious urge to discover love, and the ever-present, almost dominating affection of his beloved mother.

Unrated 89 min Drama, Thriller. A father driven into desire, a son coveting that of his father's, and the sorrowful maternity that hovers them into tragedy.

Votes: 4, R min Drama. While touring in Italy, a recently-widowed American opera singer has an incestuous relationship with her year-old son to help him overcome his heroin addiction.

Not Rated min Drama. Rescued from abandonment and raised by the King and Queen, Oedipus is still haunted by a prophecy--he'll murder his father and marry his mother.

Votes: 5, Not Rated min Crime, Drama. A loan shark is forced to reconsider his violent lifestyle after the arrival of a mysterious woman claiming to be his long-lost mother.

Justine Koo Stark wishes to remain innocent and virginal, but instead slips into a life of debauchery, torture, whipping, slavery and salaciousness.

Meanwhile, her brazen, flirtatious and Not Rated min Drama, History, Horror. In retrospect, Swinging London wasn't so far from Gabe's Nashville.

But our trip was different: For six nights, my son and I shared a hotel room -- the reason why God invented bathrobes. Over the miles, Gabe piloted us by GPS to far-flung barbecue joints my choice and blues clubs his.

His chief worry was whether his middle-aged mother would have the stamina for late-night music. I confess that more than once, especially when it was degrees at sundown, I had fantasies about a leisurely glass of wine in the lobby of the Peabody Hotel instead of being deafened in a beer-soaked bar by a white blues singer in a tight t-shirt.

But in following Gabe's lead, I learned and saw things that, had I had my druthers, would have eluded me.

I grudgingly agreed to re-jigger our itinerary for the twice-weekly tour of United Record Pressing in Nashville.

It turned out to be utterly riveting: Not only did we learn how records are made, from tiny vinyl pellets to grooves in a finished album, but we watched operators work the same archaic machines -- they smelled like burning rubber -- that pressed every Motown single and has continued to churn out thousands of albums a day ever since.

The upstairs was a revelation: the s frozen in time, including a party room with "pleather" sofas frequented by giants like Smokey Robinson and the Supremes.

But that history had a sobering side: Hauntingly preserved down to the blonde wood paneling, the company's "Motown Suite" was an apartment created for visiting Motown artists and black record executives who weren't allowed in downtown hotels.

By the time Mississippi rolled around we'd established a road rhythm: I was responsible for us not getting into an accident and Gabe was in charge of the soundtrack Paul Simon as we headed to Graceland, early B.

King as we headed to the superb B. If not exactly a buddy movie -- there were moments when I felt like the chauffeur to Gabe's Miss Daisy -- watching my son doze in the car, as he did as a baby, made me realize how much I have come to rely on his calm, steady presence, so different from my own too-frequent panic.

I thought about the sound of his electric guitar emanating from his upstairs lair, and how, every night as I crawl into bed, I have to ask him to turn the amplifier down.

I considered the melancholy quiet sure to envelop our household when he leaves for college. In the Delta, where the state Blues Commission has erected over markers of important sites, we went in search of three of Gabe's heroes -- Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters and B.

We drove the hallowed byways, the red clay soil scattered over the two-lane blacktop, stopping at Clarksdale juke joints and the Delta Blues Museum, its centerpiece a restored version of Muddy Waters's wood-plank cabin from nearby Stovall.

In Indianola, where weeds now poke through the sidewalk, we stood on the corner of Church Street, once a hopping hub on Saturday night after a hard week in the fields -- and where a teenage B.

King had played. We listened to Robert Johnson as we headed east down Highway 82 toward Greenwood, past catfish farms and the occasional McMansion.

A faint wisp of moon hovered over the soybean fields. Our destination was the Little Zion church, where Johnson, one of the most influential and revered blues musicians of all time, lies in a humble cemetery alive with dragonflies and twisted vines.

Both Johnson's life and his death are the stuff of lore; he died in at age 27 with some suggesting he was poisoned by a jealous husband.

We walked through tall grasses, reading worn headstones embedded in the cracked earth. Unlike more tourist-friendly stops, he noted, the significant feature -- Robert Johnson's grave -- wasn't clearly marked.

If I had intended to impart a life lesson, I couldn't have done better than the one he found himself. Keep that parked in the back of your brain, should you ever need to make people cringe.

My favorite piece of rectal humor. Robbie and I have always suspected, slash known, that this day would someday arrive. We have extraordinary kids with extraordinary abilities and challenges, and there is no shame in identifying what makes them who they are.

When I met Robbie Hobbs, I found him fascinating. I married Robbie because he was interesting. Every experience was an adventure, and still is.

And then, I was given three extremely quirky children to raise to adulthood, and I could not be more grateful.

Why am I, a recovering alcoholic with not that much money, raising two kids on the spectrum, plus another child, plus two cats that I never really wanted, while my husband works long hours, GRATEFUL?

My gratitude is the sum of moments like the one I witnessed several evenings ago, when Maverick pulled his siblings into the living room and read aloud the books he was given by a dear friend when he was first diagnosed with autism.

Pepper, who is only 5, listened quietly. Sobriety has given me that, the gift of noticing. Asher is struggling to make sense of the world, and the right help will ensure that he will grow into the very best version of himself.

It is not his job to make me feel any kind of way. Somehow, I grew up with the idea that my partner is supposed to complete me. Years after falling in love and marrying the man who is now my husband, I am finally beginning to wrap my mind around the concept of happiness being an inside job.

What I mean by that is, I expected his eternal adoration and undying love for me to patch up the cavern inside my soul, and when he failed to do this, I got mad at him.

After years of saying I feel unloved, no matter what he said or did to demonstrate that he did in fact love me, he got tired.

So, I can no longer say that Robbie Hobbs makes me happy. When I finally began to understand how my own expectations were negatively impacting my most important relationships, I finally began to heal.

No one on this planet can do this work for me, or make me comprehend it fully. What a revelation! Oh, well. And guess who put herself in that category by.

Here I have a well-documented journey of the past 8 years, the better part of which I thought other people were the root cause of my distress.

I constantly fight the urge to go back and edit, erase, and alter the not-quite-right things I said about myself, my husband, my kids, and my life before I got sober.

The thing is, people understood what I said then, and strangely, people understand what I say now. We are just going to keep moving forward, together.

Almost everything is like that: ass backwards. Last year, my therapist gave me an assignment: I was to fill out four sets of questionnaires and bring them back to her.

The minute I left her office, picked my three children up from different locations, and arrived home to a kitchen that was still dirty from breakfast 10 hours earlier, I forgot about the worksheets.

Not figuratively. A few weeks later, I arrived at my p. Some people spend their entire lives running away from themselves.

Sometimes, not one other person is aware of their struggle, or maybe everyone is, but no one ever says anything.

The real tragedy is the people who never stop running away. They die feeling that unsettled feeling of incompleteness, or blaming everyone around them for their discomfort because they are unwilling to face themselves.

When I got sober, I made the conscious decision to face myself. I stopped running, slowing down to a jog, then to a walk, and finally I just stopped and sat down in the dirt.

Therapy is slowly but surely giving me the instructions I need in order to learn how to function without a drink in my hand.

One afternoon, I tackled the pile of mail on the kitchen table, piling bills and things that I needed to take care of on top of my calendar.

I made a separate pile of junk that needed to be tossed, and feeling quite proud of myself, I filled out half of the worksheets from my therapist.

By the end of it, I was exhausted. Feeling and thinking wears me the fuck out. My thenyear-old dragged the kitchen garbage can over for me, and I let her help me throw away the pile of trash.

I went to therapy. I have a habit of sitting in the parking lot layering more and more makeup on before I go in. I want so much not to look like someone who is sitting in the dirt.

I want my insides to match my outsides and vice versa. My head snapped up. When I got home, my husband met me at the door.

Later, I remembered the worksheets. I looked everywhere for them, my husband helping me overturn every drawer, surface and stack that they could have possibly gotten mixed into.

I was terrified that my oldest child had found them and read them. I threw them away. I completed, and then threw away, my therapy assignment.

The irony is not lost on me. Sitting in the dirt is progress. Trying is progress. Sobriety is progress. My dress had pockets. This is us. And yes, my oldest is definitely giving you the bird.

My kids are growing up intimately aware of the fact that there is always a lot more to people than what we can see on the outside. I have behavioral problems.

Not with my kids — with myself. I just cannot seem to get my act together. All of my energy goes to being a consistent parent, which is great, right?

Of course it is! P arenting experts always stress the importance of consistency because kids thrive under steadiness and uniformity; it brings a sense of stable predictability to an often unpredictable world, blah, blah, blah.

Even adults prefer consistency, which is why my husband predictably has to use the bathroom at the exact same time every morning, just when everyone is trying to cram into the bathroom to brush their teeth for school.

In response, I predictably roll my eyes and let out huffy sighs to let him know how irritating his predictable bathroom schedule is.

If only it were this easy. I almost skipped going to an NFL game because I was so freaked out by how my legs looked in this dress. I have belonged to a multitude of gyms, danced or huffed along with many different workout routines on a multitude of medias, visited yoga studios, cleansing centers, psychics, and therapists.

Yoga, for example, makes me feel amazing. My body operates on a much higher level when I eliminate sugar.

So is, unfortunately for me, vodka. After hitting bottom nearly 2 years ago, I got sober and ate many pans of cookies and gained a bunch of weight and then I lost some weight and gained it back again.

Why is it so hard for me to just be healthy? My eyes widened as I absorbed what I was hearing. In sum, I do whatever I feel like doing, and expect things to magically change.

Or, if we do, we feel guilty. I have it backwards. Instead of caring for myself first, I care for everyone else and then run out of steam. There is nothing left.

I gave it all away. Then, I act like a raging lunatic and blame it on hormones and then I look in the mirror and wonder where the real me went.

The fixing needs to start inside us, and slowly radiate out. We have to amend the belief that we come last. We have to unapologetically reclaim ourselves.

We need to give ourselves permission. Hey, guess what? Things are funny again, which is probably good news for those of you who have stuck around here for awhile.

For those of you who are new, let me break it down for you:. Last year was all about getting myself dried out, staying sober, and remaining afloat — which, by the way, took a literal team of people constantly supporting and pushing me forward.

For whatever reason, people like me and there are way more of us than I initially realized are really, really terrible at taking care of themselves.

We are the unwashed, the martyrs and the passive aggressives, the alcoholics and the pill-poppers, the doctor-shoppers and the compulsive gamblers.

Most of the time, the things I need to do in order to be well are often the very things that make me want to wear my frumpiest flannel pajamas, curl into the smallest ball possible, and shove store brand chocolate chips into my mouth.

It would be a lot easier to just stop trying. I could park myself at home, let the shit pile up around me, yell at my kids, stop doing the things that help me hold my life together, eat nachos or whatever the hell, and do what comes naturally which is absolutely nothing.

It would be glorious, until I let it go for too long, as people like me tend to do, and then before I know it I would be doing lines of cocaine off the coffee table at 3 a.

Two summers ago, I spent an inordinate amount of time making myself beautiful in a hotel room in Baltimore, Maryland.

I was there for a blogging conference with my friend Audrey. On our final day, before returning back home to Baton Rouge, we headed to a nice brunch with a group of smart, influential women.

I wanted to make a good impression, and the best way I knew to do that was to walk into the restaurant looking like I just stepped out of a hair salon.

Because that makes sense. The first summer, I loved it. It was one of those life-changing experiences that let me know I am on the right path as a writer.

It made me feel like I was a part of something greater than myself: a community of creative, brilliant women who support each other. This is the truth: I have a chip on my shoulder that may take a lifetime of therapy to eradicate.

There are reasons for my irrationalities that I could list here, blathering on for pages and pages, but none of it matters. Not really.

I pretended to be happy. I pretended to be calm. I pretended to be sober. I pretended to be whole. This was the heart of my need to control, my desire for perfection, my constant feeling of worthlessness, and my many insecurities.

Instead of acting like a normal member of society and laughing it off as a joke, I damn near got into a fistfight. Dead serious, it almost came to blows.

Audrey told me later that in that moment, she knew we were probably going to end up in a Baltimore jail that afternoon, rather than in the airport.

Looking back, I wish that had been my low point. So, I took it. Here I am, trying not to puke in front of hundreds of people.

During my speech, I talked about that day at brunch — how I justified my behavior, twisted the situation to make what I did make sense in my mind.

How I refused to apologize or own up to my part in it, which strangely enough, is exactly what haunts me about my past.

The women who wronged me have never owned up to it or apologized, even when pressed in a court room. I think about it when I catch myself judging other people who are acting like assholes.

I think about it when I see a homeless tweaker standing under a bridge, or pushing a shopping cart full of trash.

Recently, someone commented on an Instagram post that she misses my writing. Sometimes I want to wipe it all clean, hit delete, and start fresh.

My oldest, my muse, my biggest headache and source of inspiration. Maverick is the only one out of my three who remembers what I used to be like, before I got sober.

I take it in small bites. I miss it for a few minutes, a few times per day. But the day ends, and so does my desire to get plastered.

We have come so far since we were in that dark place two years ago, before his diagnosis, before we got the right help for him, and later, for me.

The rest of our little family was being dragged along on a crazy — not the fun kind of crazy, the crazy kind of crazy — ride with no end in sight.

The fire that burns underneath my feet to keep me moving is stoked by the knowledge that if we go backward, it would be so much worse.

The screeching! The fighting! The kicking of the seats! The way Robbie cranks up the radio to drown them all out, but all it does is add to the chaos!

I used to drink to take the edge off, and when I first got sober? No way was I getting in a car with everyone else unless it was absolutely necessary.

But now, 14 months into recovery, I can handle it. The volume might grate on my nerves, but not unbearably so. I simply enjoyed my fun-kind-of-crazy family.

The mind is a tricky thing. I was depressed for years but did not want to be, so I found chemicals to perk myself up. Yes, everyone does. We married and vowed to stay with each other in sickness and in health and I guess this whole addiction thing is my sickness.

Something is inherently wrong with me. In therapy, I described how, for a very long time, I blamed my family for causing me to believe those lies.

If Robbie would just bring home flowers, I would feel loved. If only our children were easier. Then, I would know I was a good mother.

Because I have a sick mom and a child on the spectrum and a husband who works crazy hours? Searching for evidence to support the lies I tell myself occupied my thoughts.

I am in charge of my emotions. I am in charge of how I allow others to affect me. Everything else is outside of the hula hoop, which means it is outside of my control.

They are the ones who cleaned my vomit out of the car and the bed and went with me to the doctor and loved me, no matter how much I yelled or how unpredictable I was.

Not one of those people stopped loving me. They are living proof that the lies I told myself are, in fact, lies. This is me.

She put down her pen; I bit my bottom lip to the point of pain, waiting for her to continue. She picks up her pen; I exhale.

I have not lost my husband or my kids. My friends still speak to me. I love and I am loved, even though a loud, persistent voice tells me every day that I am unworthy.

The other shoe will drop soon, says the voice, and no one can be trusted except for my best friends, alcohol and uppers.

Figuring out how to acknowledge that voice and then actively choose not to listen to it is an invisible, exhausting task that is hard to explain to people who have never had to battle with an almost constant feeling that everyone would be better off if they were dead.

I want to feel brave and fortunate and strong. On January 9, , my dad had surgery. I was happy to do it, especially because I knew this would be the first January 9 th I faced in recovery and I needed a distraction.

January 9, is the day my life imploded. First, I pressed charges. Second, I broke up with the man I was planning to marry and spend the rest of my life with, because I could no longer fathom a happy future with him.

It was purely because he happened to be related to the kind of people who thought it was acceptable to slam me, choke me, kick me, punch me, and lick my face.

I was done. Maybe walking away from that relationship means they won. Maybe becoming an alcoholic means they won. If they wanted to destroy me, they were successful.

Not one of them ever acknowledged what they did. They did what they did and pretended it never even happened, and we were left to figure out the rest.

I chose to walk away from the relationship, and that is something I drank over for a very, very long time. When I got sober, it was like awakening from a deep sleep.

Like, oh! I made that decision and now my life is this. That choice led me to point A and then to point B where I seriously screwed up, but how did I get here?

Was I sober when I met Robbie? Was I sober when we married? What about when we decided to have kids — was I sober then? This year, I spent January 9 in a hospital waiting room working really hard not to self-destruct.

I made it through the day — my dad went home, and so did I — but then I had to rush him back to the Emergency Room two days later. The E. I was awake for 36 hours straight.

My dad was hooked up to morphine. At a few different points, he and I both thought he was going to die. She was there to take care of the kids so I could be with my dad, but she admitted later on that she was mostly there to make sure I was able to take care of myself so I could take care of everyone else.

My girlfriends sent food to my house and to my parents. Kate grocery shopped for my kids, bought them balloons, and assured them that their real mom would be home soon.

My mother-in-law did all of the laundry, and then, Kate did it again. She taught my children ballet poses. Kate mothered me. She cooked food and encouraged me to eat it.

She sent me to my step meetings. For almost a week, she reminded me that it was okay to need and accept help. Her presence made me remember to keep doing the things that keep me sober.

Robbie bought a desk for my office and had it assembled when I got home. He did everything he could think of to make my life easier while I was preoccupied with getting my dad better.

Getting better is hard work, something my therapist acknowledges and encourages me to talk about. This is Kate.

She is my sister. Our town home, although small, had a large garden tub that I kept scrubbed clean.

A hot bath with Epsom salts is the only thing that relaxes me the way wine does. When I was pregnant with Maverick, and later, Asher, I soaked in that tub almost every night to relax the muscles wrapping around my midsection.

As I floated, belly protruding, I could breathe. After we walked away from our mortgage in like so many other young couples who found themselves trapped in the real estate market crash, I either drank myself to oblivion or crammed my body into the dingy tub of an overpriced rental home to relax.

Sometimes, I did both. A few days into sobriety, my brain still fogged over from detox, I wondered what would happen if I sank under the murky water and inhaled.

The dense fog has lifted now, and most days, being sober feels like a heavy weight. Drinking was like a weight, too, but this is different.

Life is what feels heavy. Alcohol let me block it out but did not provide an escape from my problems. Sobriety opens up the curtains and lets the light in: painful, but promising.

I voluntarily opted to birth my middle child without any pain medication whatsoever. It was an amazing, horrifying, terrible, awesome experience.

There were a few points when I was absolutely certain that I was going to die, but I had no choice but to keep going.

With the help of my support system, my son and I made it to the other side alive. That is what it feels like to be in recovery. As terribly uncomfortable as it is, I just have to keep moving forward.

Neither stopping nor going backwards is an option for me. At this particular time in my life, with small kids who have a lot of needs, true recovery can feel like an impossible undertaking.

I thought if I moved on fast enough, planned well enough, and accomplished enough, I could somehow escape it.

I ran, literally and figuratively; I recoiled from it like someone might from a thing that has the potential to kill you.

I thought it would crush me if I allowed myself to feel it, so I refused to. I masked the pain with a number of relationships, walled myself off, and became an alcoholic.

I met my husband and we built a life, but as much as I love him I never allowed him to truly love me.

On January 9, , I suffered emotional and physical trauma followed by a heartbreak so profound that I never allowed myself to address it at all.

I smashed myself back together like a car wreck survivor might if lost in the woods without access to medical care, and I never healed properly.

Just like a broken arm that never healed correctly, I have to re-break my heart in order to allow it to fully mend. There is never, ever an ideal time for heartache.

I procrastinated for 18 years, but now, if I want to remain sober from alcohol, and I do, I have no other choice but to surrender. Maybe normal people wrestle with terrible things that happen in their lives within a reasonable time frame, without having to hit rock bottom half a lifetime later and narrowly avoiding rehab.

Clearly, I am not a normal person. For half my life, I stuffed and avoided and blocked out and denied and channeled all of the pain and sadness into defiance, drive, and misguided attempts at controlling the outcome of almost every situation I found myself in.

When I had fully exhausted myself of all those options, I turned to alcohol. I would drink anything that was handed to me. I knew it would make everything better, if only temporarily.

The burning hurt less than the pain inside my chest. I have to remember that. Trying to stay focused on today is hard for a planner.

Recovery has hills and valleys. There have been times that I felt amazing and everything was great. This is not like that. My first sober Thanksgiving is probably not the ideal time to work my 9 th step , and yet, here we are.

I spent Thanksgiving Eve on the couch, reading trashy celebrity gossip and texting my friends who were running around town or traveling, so our conversations happened in snippets.

I tried to boil my feelings down to a few short paragraphs. I got up from my spot on the couch only a handful of times throughout the day to feed the kids and brew more coffee.

There were things I should have been doing instead — I had complicated holiday dishes to assemble, and my house was not suitable for guests — but I felt rooted to the cushions.

Almost 9 months into recovery, I have learned not to fight the exhaustion that sometimes comes in waves. I give in.

Change is exhausting. I have three elementary-aged kids, none of whom know how to brush their teeth properly, and sometimes I barely have the bandwidth to get everyone to school on time.

Digging for the emotional strength that recovery requires is often beyond me. This was me. Time ticked by like that, for years and years, without many people noticing a pattern.

As a kid, holidays were my favorite time of year: magical and fun. The Christmas I turned 19 was the worst of my life.

I never fully recovered from what happened that year, so from that point until I entered recovery almost exactly 18 years later, I found different ways to mask the pain that always crops up.

I bulldozed through it. There is never a convenient time to feel pain or deal with uncomfortable emotions. You either face it, or you numb yourself.

I feel, in the words of my friend Amber , like a vulnerable dumpster fire. But at least I know that is how I feel, and not what I just drank an entire bottle of wine in order to pretend like I feel.

We would outlive our husbands, of course, and maybe take a lover or two. Our children would come visit, their own children in tow, until the day we quietly died in our sleep.

That was the problem; she was a stone cold bitch. She made me believe I needed her to make me happy. She made me sick on my honeymoon, clutching the tiny toilet in our cruise ship bathroom.

Because of her, I got myself into dangerous situations. I wandered drunk and alone in the middle of Manhattan at 3 a. I picked fights with my husband, threw things, blacked out, and made terrible decisions.

Her influence touched every corner of my life. I made a living writing jokes and essays about our friendship. She fanned the flames of my anger in every direction away from her.

My problems were never, ever because of her. She was my confidante, my closest companion, the one I ran to when life became too much. Towards the end, she was systematically ruining every relationship I had in an attempt to have me all to herself.

Getting sober from alcohol has been liberating and terrifying and life-changing, but I am also grieving the loss of a friend who knew all of my secret fears.

But bitch, we are no longer friends. Let me preface this by saying that I am struggling to adjust to summer break. But also horrible? Can something be good and horrible all at once?

As I have already established in multiple blog posts from previous years, summer is effing relentless. Pepper is obsessed with two things: outlets and babies.

Here she is showing her baby doll the outlet in her bedroom. Thankfully, this year is somewhat easier than previous years simply because my children are getting older and more independent.

Yesterday afternoon, we got home from playing at the park. The boys jumped out of the van, heard some kids next door playing, and asked if they could go over to play.

I granted them permission and took Pepper inside. Her clothes were filthy — covered in layers of peanut butter and dirt — so I stripped her down to a diaper.

I ran to the bathroom with her trailing behind me, always my little shadow. And then, my mom called. I was straining to understand what she was saying — did she just say she needed to go to the hospital?!

As her shouting drowned out my mother, my stress level started to rise. I went to my bedroom and closed the door.

My daughter cried from the hall, and when she stopped, I was thankful. When I emerged only a few minutes later, the house was quiet.

A panicky feeling started to rise in my chest, and then it felt like my heart stopped. I was barefoot and it did not matter.

I ran. I ran until I found her. All I could hear was my own voice screaming her name, and my heartbeat deafening my ears. That is what blind panic feels like.

My 2-year-old was wandering one street over from ours, wearing nothing but her diaper. She was holding a toy pet carrier with a little stuffed dog inside.

I will never forget the way her face looked when she saw the horror on mine. I am capable. I am aware. I am not negligent.

But children are fast. And sometimes quiet. And things happen. That time has arrived. So, yes. The pandemic used up the remainder of the tolerance I used to have.

Not one of them waved back. Have you had an abortion? Also, every other woman I saw in the waiting room was white, just so you know. See also: the foster care system.

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