Bu's Battle

"It doesn't count if you're already planning your defeat."

The words stung, not because they were dishonest, but because they were a reminder of my past failure, a reminder of promises I only knew how to shatter, of the times I was my own worst enemy.

I looked at my sister and remained silent as words meant nothing more than symbols strung together and carried by hopeless sound. She was right.

The past few weeks had been tough on my mental health - I isolated myself from family and my friends who only wanted to offer me support. It was a vicious cycle; they reach out, I hide away, they step back and I cry out that nobody cares for me.

All I had was the bottle.

Booze had always been there for me. The night at the office party when my supervisor cornered my in the break room and fondled my breasts - whiskey was my solace. When I eventually got fired because that same vile supervisor's ego was hurt by my rejection of his assault and attempt to report him, the box wine I kept in the pantry comforted me. Those colleagues who'd pretended to be on my side in an instant turned away and shoved my to the bottom of scotch bottles nearly half my age.

My partner who had claimed to be my rock quickly showed my their true self when they declared me 'damaged goods' after the horrifying ordeal.

I felt truly alone, shunned and by no fault of mine, broken. Nothing gave me joy, I didn't feel hopeful, just grateful that I could have a few shots of this constant and try forget about my life outside of those glorious drops.

I was forgetting parts of myself - drowning deeper and deeper in the waves of self loathing and heartbreak. My hobbies, long forgotten did nothing to invoke positivity, I stared at my canvases and paint accessories as though I didn't recognize them. My own memories felt foreign, as if they had been planted there to make it seem like I once had a somewhat stable life with a great bunch of people in it.

Go out dancing and genuinely enjoy the night out? Didn't sound like me at all. Trying out a new restaurant? Must be someone else you're confusing me with. Game night at a friends to catch up? Sorry, wrong Bu.

The more I drank, the less I felt, about myself and about everything else. My past ebbed away as the gin and tonic played familiarly on my tongue. I ate only because I had to have a morsel of food in order to keep the acidity at bay. Day and night meant nothing to me as I floated hazily through them both with nothing to highlight, nothing to look forward to.

This is where I belonged.

My sister looked into my eyes and held my hands. She'd always been there for me, consistently encouraging me to be my best self. Pam had a way about her - a kindness nobody else had ever offered me. Unprovoked she came to my rescue, picking me up from the depths of my despair, holding space for me as she spoke affirmations over my life. The times when I couldn't be there for myself, Pam showed up on my behalf - loudly and lovingly, with open arms and forgiving words.

My sister was my biggest supporter and I didn't believe in angels until I met her.

My heart broke as I looked to find words, I was sure I couldn't stay sober, because I had tried time and time again. Booze always won. I would be alright for weeks on end and something would throw everything off. Back to the bottle I went because where else could I go for that familiar comfort.

Waking up with pounding headaches didn't stop me, finding myself in strange beds did nothing, the loss of so many of my memories and so much money offered no motivation to quit.

What did I have going for me? Was there even a point to existing like this anymore?

"I have nothing left to give, Pam," I stuttered. "My life - it wasn't supposed to turn out like this and I don't know how to change it. It's too late for me, sis. I have accepted my fate. All I am has been consumed by my addiction. The dreams that kept my younger self awake and starry eyed faded faster than my desire to achieve them. Those who loved and cheered me on, I hurt with my words and actions - and lack thereof. "

"Darling sister," Pam said as she played with my hair. "Here you are, admitting to everything you have done, to the hurt you've caused yourself and others. You are stronger than you give yourself credit for. A fighter. You are not a pushover, an ambitious go-getter who may have lost her way a few times. So what? Pick yourself up beautiful, try again. Don't let the past define who you are and could be, my love. Fight for your growth, choose yourself everyday, because you can be your own best cheerleader or worst enemy - only you decide."

The tears flowed freely now. I felt true emptiness in my heart, surrender like never before. She was right, of course (Pam was always right). I sobbed heavily, the kind of sobbing that forced my shoulders to tremble, weeping that made my voice horse and my eyes swollen and dried out.

A huge shift in my life was needed, and I was finally willing to accept that.

It was the anniversary of Pam's death.

Although it had been 3 years since she was taken from me by a drunk driver, she had never really left me. Losing her made everything feel worse, I truly did not want to continue existing.

But her love always carrying me through the darkest of days, encouraging me to hold on a little longer. My guardian angel in life and death.

I looked at myself in the mirror and a stranger stared back. Who was that? Who had I become?

None of that mattered as I picked myself up and put myself together. Sobriety felt daunting and I was worried I would fall back into old and comfortable habits.

Pam lovingly stepped in and interrupted my self sabotaging thoughts, "It doesn't count if you're already planning your defeat."