On the Edge of Shattered

I open my left eye and see darkness all around me. There is a pulsing  inside my head. A heaviness within. A stabbing pain deep in my brain sends a jolt through my body. I open my other eye and breathe in the stale air. My mouth is dry, and I try to clear my throat. 

I am totally naked, except for my right sock, which is starting to slip off my heel. 

A feeling hits me deep inside my belly. I begin to wonder, Did I screw up again?

I know the answer because it is the same damn thing as it always is on mornings like this.

I lay still, slowly absorbing the muted colors of the room in front of me. Without moving my body, I allow my surroundings to come into focus. I recognize the Pottery Barn duvet that Evan and I chose  one Saturday morning many years ago. I sit up a bit more and recognize the coordinated  cornflower blue throw pillows and ivory rug. We argued over the color of that rug, but I won. 

I try to think back to last night. What time did we get home? Why do I have one sock on? I rewind the tape back to the mudroom. The car. The neighbors house. We ate pizza for dinner. The night goes dark after that.

I close my eyes again.

At thirty-eight years old, I always pictured our life just as it is: A husband. Three kids. A house in the ‘burbs. A bright, neatly decorated home with elegant New England style. Lots of light blues and whites in every room. I told Evan exactly what I wanted my life to look like over brunch and mimosas one morning before we ever had kids. And here we were.

I lay in bed and gaze at the long, black shadows cast across the light gray wall in the early morning light. There is a slight comfort in knowing that I did, thankfully, end up in my bedroom. I didn’t sleep in the mudroom or on the kitchen floor. It has happened before. I start to wonder if the kids are okay, because I don’t remember putting them to bed. My heart starts thumping wildly, deep within my chest. I glance over and see Evan. He is snoring beside me and sleeping soundly, so that must mean the kids are fine. He is always blissfully  unaware. He just sleeps. 

A small sliver of light shines in from the window across the room. Without checking the clock, I know what hour it is; it is always the same time every morning, when the fog of booze has finally lifted. 4:00AM. This is usually when I emerge from my blackout. I lie there another few minutes and squeeze my eyes shut as the room spins a few more rotations. I urge the day to never begin yet at the same time wish for the painful loneliness of this shameful routine to end. 

I glance at the artwork above our headboard, which was meant to compliment the hues of the rest of the bedroom. The final piece when designing the bedroom that made it feel complete.

The large alluring beach scene appears distorted in the morning light. It is no longer picturesque and bright, the painting has grown dark and gruesome. The mountainous cliffs look menacing, e threatening in the pale shadows of the morning. Maybe it’s just the hangover, but it appears as if the sea is angry, about to swallow me whole. The sky,a mess of dark rain clouds, is ready to open up and storm down on me from up above.

The familiarity of my situation dawns on me, and I lay motionless, continuing to try and piece together the events of yesterday. Pizza. Firepit. Bottles and bottles of bubbles. I fumble around, searching for my phone on my bedside table, unwilling to shift the hair from off of my face. If I don’t move anything else maybe I’ll fall back asleep. 

Why do I always do this to myself? 

A few moments pass and I prop myself up on my elbow slightly in hopes I can  spot my phone somewhere in the sheets. 

I need water. 

A throbbing pain jabs at my skull. 

Where is my cell phone? 

I look over the side of the bed and see the damn thing lodged between the nightstand and the side of the bed, one of its usual hiding places. 

How the hell does my phone always end up down there? I manage to grab it without my insides exploding and brace myself for the dreaded game of ‘Who did you text last night?’ But I immediately toss it aside. I can’t deal with that shit yet. 

I lay back down and think through the evening some more, attempting to piece together one fragmented memory after the next. I vaguely remember taking the dog out, but I can’t recall if I went straight to bed. Did Evan and I have an argument? Likely. Anything is possible.

Suddenly, I want to vomit, and I lean over the side of the bed looking for a trash can. There is a realization that I am shaking. Full body tremors. Accompanied by sweat. 

Why? Why can’t I just have just one drink? Why do I always have to get so drunk? I begin to cry.

I make sure Evan is still asleep, because I can’t risk him waking and wondering what is wrong. I bury my face into the pillow.

Rolling out of bed, I manage to land on my feet and stumble into the bathroom. I can’t let him hear me. I need to get away from this room. I need to make it all stop.

In the bathroom, I close my eyes and sit down on the floor. Rolling into a ball on the tile, I begin to shiver. 

A darkness pushes down on me. A heaviness. 

I am in the painting. Alone. I am at the bottom of the steep cliffs, standing ankle deep in the ocean. The salt water bubbles around my ankles, anchoring me down. I am alone at the base of the rocks. I hear the roar of the ocean all around me. The clouds are dark and I feel the rain pelting down on my naked body.

Looking over my shoulder, I see a massive wave charging towards me. I stare up in search of people above me, wondering how to climb out of the water. I desperately study the cliffs for an escape. A way to the light above. Away from the danger down below. Out of the murkiness. 

How can I reach my children? My husband? I hear their voices, but I cannot see them.

I hear them calling for me. The waves crash and the thunder rumbles in the distance on the horizon.

Can I climb the sides? Out of this dark chasm? 

Grabbing at the rocks, my hands slip. I try to yell, but my words cannot be heard over the roar of the waves. My fingernails dig into the crumbling rock as pieces of it fall away beneath me. 

The wave crashes into my body, pinning me against a jagged pillar. 

I hear my children crying. 

My husband’s hands. I reach for them. 

I want to climb up and out of this lonely abyss. I am drowning. I am scared. How did I get here? Why am I all alone? 

Grabbing at the rocks again, I begin to climb. Up towards the voices. I thought I  loved the ocean. I thought I wanted to live by the sea. I tried to make a home on the rocks, but I did not realize the strength of this world. The pull of the waves. The tide came in, and I  grew weak. 

It felt okay for a while. I am tired now. So lonely. Cold. 

It is too dark. And I can no longer live in the shadows of my secrets.

I kick and flail as the ocean waves continue to beat against me. But the dark clouds are no longer, and suddenly I see sunshine. My children’s faces peer over the edge. I see my husband smiling down at me. 

Maybe I have a choice, after all. I open my eyes. 

I sit up on the floor of the bathroom and pull my robe up around my naked body, shivering on the icy cold tile.

I slowly pull myself up, using the counter to hoist myself to my feet. I hesitantly look at the person in the mirror.

Pale face, mascara smudged in deep, black circles beneath both of my hollow, empty green eyes. My long, brown hair hangs loosely around my freckled cheeks. 

I manage to find my way back into my bed and look over at Evan, still asleep.

I stare at the bit of stubble on his cheek and chin that never fully manages to grow in.

I hold onto my knees and stare at the cliffs and ocean scene above our bed, listening to my husband’s heavy breathing. 

Terrified. Unable to fully trust that I can actually do what needs to be done, I lean over and tap his shoulder. He doesn’t move.

I sigh and consider just curling back up into a ball. Let the waves wash over me.

But instead, there is a flash of light through the roaring, murky gray. And I feel something strong. Slowly, a brightness begins to pull me from the shadows, and a force pulls me upright. I breathe deeply for a moment. 

I cannot keep doing this anymore. I cannot keep waking up everyday feeling this way. It has to stop.

Something guides my hands, a tiny force within, and I surprise myself. I don’t know how I am able to find any strength at all, but I find myself grabbing Evan. I place my hands on my husband’s muscular back; the top of his head catches the light.

I use both of my hands and gently try to shake him. He doesn’t move. I poke him. Nothing. Then before I know it, with a rush of adrenaline, I am shaking him with all of my strength.

“Evan! Evan, wake up!”

“What?” he asks, suddenly alert.

“I need you.”

“What? What are you doing?”

“I need to talk to you.”

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s okay. Calm down. I need to do something.” I whisper.

I wait a moment. We sit in silence, and he attempts to pull me close to him. But I sit back and take a deep breath. Does he know what I am about to say? Maybe he has been waiting for this. “I think… I think I need to stop drinking.”

He wraps himself around me, squeezes me tightly and kisses the top of my head.

“Okay. Okay sure.”

“Will you help me?”

“I can. I will help you. I will do whatever you need me to do.”

“I don’t know how,” I say, crying into the sheets.

“It’s okay, we can do this,” he tells me.

“Will you stop drinking too?”

“If you want me to, I will.”

“How do I do this?”

“We will figure this out, Kim.”

As I lay there crying, I feel a lightness. 

A dark heaviness seems to subside. A pressure slowly begins to release. 

I don’t know what the hell I am doing, and I am scared. But I finally said the words out loud that I have been ignoring for so long, and there is no taking it back now.

I have been going full speed, unable to control myself. Finally, it’s as if someone has suddenly hit the breaks. 

I feel relief. Slowing down, I wipe my tears. My racing thoughts ease to a crawl and the blurred images come into focus. 

And in this moment, I unknowingly begin the frightening ascent from the profoundly dark chasm that has become my life. 

Little did I know, this moment would mark the beginning of a long road. That morning, I unknowingly unlocked a door within myself, one that I had been sealed shut for many years. I finally set myself free.

About Kimberly Kearns:

Kimberly is a writer who lives outside of Boston, Massachusetts with her husband and three beautiful children. After relying on alcohol for over 20 years, she discovered a life of sobriety during the pandemic. She is passionate about sharing her story and hopes to inspire others that might be curious about an alcohol-free lifestyle. She is the co-host of the podcast @theweekendsoberpodcast. You can find more on her instagram: @asoberandstrongmom or her blog: www.asoberandstrongmom.com