Writing not smoking

Sleep quality: Insomnia, mosquitos, plastic bed sheets, night sweats, intense frustration, racing thoughts and a million google searches.

Well now that I’m pregnant it’s not just me. It’s me and my poppy-seed-sized child against the world. Smoking weed has always been a selfish act I took upon myself to escape responsibilities, procrastinate potential and stagnate in self-pity. Although I believe it’ll be easier to curb withdrawals now that I’m no longer centre-stage, I’m under no illusion that the journey ahead will be easy. Or even reliable. I will need to continue attending meetings, writing here and allow myself to feel it all. I am likely to be tempted to relapse every single day of my pregnancy and beyond – that is what addiction is.

If you’ve read my previous posts you’ll already know me well enough to understand that I am, and have always been, a highly sensitive person. I’m an addict, an adult child of an alcoholic parent, a cancer moon, empath and just all-round lover of mush. Dramatic as hell! Endlessly impulsive, especially in my teen years and early 20’s. ChatGPT – my free therapist in place of radical acceptance – defined me as a “passionate phoenix meets cosmic caregiver”. Basically I’m a dreamer who cries a lot but also loves to dive in deep and white-knuckle arguments that “matter”. I burn through jobs and hobbies at the speed of light but am always willing to be born again and return stronger. Sure, timing could have been better, but this pregnancy is going to be the time to dive in deep and face the ugly parts. Before my child has to.

I don’t want this to read a harping on and on about my faults. I want no pity nor saving. I find it cathartic typing this way, because I’m now writing through the lens of early motherhood. I want my child to know who I am, how wonky and worrisome I was and learn from me. I know my dad taught me how not to drink. Maybe I can teach my seedling how not to use marijuana. All parents likely say this, but I am pretty confident I know all the tricks. I feel sorry for my teens who think they’ll be sneaking out to any “nice guys’” houses. They don’t know my inner gasoline-slinging teenager is still very much alive, and about to be my closest confidante in the next adventure.

I’m still not editing anything on here, just trying to create a writing structure and lower my cortisol levels to make way for new life and stay sober. Tomorrow I will think about the nitty gritty details and big conversations to come. I can’t wait to have a nap now, I need to call my parents to tell them the news in an hour and I have nothing in the tank to prepare for that.

It’s currently 4.20pm here, thanks dad for gifting me such a dark sense of humour.