“Oh, help!” said Pooh. “I’d better go back.”
“Oh, bother!” said Pooh. “I shall have to go on.”
“I can’t do either!” said Pooh. “Oh, help and bother!”
“The fact is,” said Rabbit, “you’re stuck.”

~ A. A. Milne

I’m stuck. I want to write, but I feel incapable of it. I am feeling so many things… my head is spinning… I feel out-of-sorts and not okay at all.

And it’s silly, really.

I woke up this morning with a huge chip on my shoulder because I agreed to work today, even though I wanted to take the day off. So I’m carrying a whole lot of resentment around about that, and I have no one to blame but myself.

I became extremely productive around the house this morning (I worked from home) but then I just could not (and cannot) get kicked into gear. Normally, my behavior would be to eat myself into a coma and blame it on the sugar. And I confess I did eat a few goodies from Joey’s basket today, but nothing that was all that earth-shattering. And still, I’m stuck.

Stuck in a funky funk, and I can’t pull myself out.

My lawyer sent me a court document response from Mr. N/A today, to which I needed to respond by next Thursday. I sat down and wrote immediately, while everything was boiling inside.

Several pages came pouring out of me, finally telling the truth as I see it to the judge. Finally… my ex has a drinking problem. There it was, in black and white. No more protecting his name from the public eye, no more hiding behind the pink elephant in the room. His drinking has affected all of us in a negative way, and I’m seeking the court’s help to insist that this issue be addressed. My children are suffering. I’m certainly suffering. And I imagine Mr. N/A is feeling pain beyond my comprehension if he must numb himself out with booze.

His horrible behavior is not that of a normal person at all – it’s the behavior of someone with the disease of alcoholism, and he needs an intervention.

Out came the story of our 2003 family vacation in St. Martin that left scars and collateral damage. My girls would later admit to me that it was the moment when they realized, young as they were, that their father was a drunk. In retrospect, it was probably the turning point for me as well, as I would file for divorce just 2 years later.

I sort of felt like I had just thrown up all over the electronic paper – tasting the nasty bile at the end of it all and feeling wiped out and empty. But still, my stomach felt a little bit better just to have the evil stuff out of me.

And I remained stuck.

I didn’t know what to do next. I forced myself to eat dinner. I wanted to go to the bike shop and buy a bike. That was my plan. I couldn’t go. I was stuck.

I am keenly aware that my tense has changed from “I’m stuck,” to “I was stuck.” Do I detect a budge?

So, at this very moment, I am standing at my kitchen counter, typing this post. My legs ache from standing on the tile floor nearly all day. I feel like I punished myself by not buying the bike and by not enjoying the weather outside at all.

My new plan is that I’m finished eating for the day, and I shall stick with water until bed, and I will boot up the treadmill here in awhile and work up a good sweat, hoping to free myself from this emotional bind I’ve put myself into.

And tomorrow is another day. More on that later…

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