Seeking joy and meaning in a joyless mind and meaningless existence

Friday, March 6, 2015

Pfeiffer R.I.P.

This past Saturday I had to have my remaining cat Pfeiffer euthanized.  She was about seventeen and four months, and she'd been with me for over sixteen years.  She could barely walk and had mostly stopped going to the bathroom, and the vet told me that it was time to let her go.  I went by myself, and it was very hard.  Everyone at my veterinary clinic was wonderful, just like last time.  They gave Pfeiffer a sedative, and I held her in my arms until she fell asleep.  They then took her away to administer the euthanizing agent, and she was gone in just a few minutes.
Good night, Princess...
I've cried much over her, even though she had a good life.  Grief is especially hard when, like me, you don't have much of a social support network, which is also an added challenge to my attempts at sobriety.  I'm lucky enough to still have my parents, and I do have wonderful friends.  And all of that is a comfort to me.  But I don't have a social network to buoy me when I  need it, a fact that has always been noted by the mental health professionals I've seen.  Mostly it's the fault of my obtuse, poorly-developed social skills, and it's in my nature to isolate myself.  My father even volunteered to go to Pfeiffer's appointment with me, but I didn't feel that was a good idea.
Personal Roundup
It's been a hellish, hellish, hellish five month as I've navigated through the symptoms of post-acute withdrawal syndrome while holding down an often-stressful job with the aforementioned lack of social support.  I've clung to my sobriety like flotsam through a stormy sea and have somehow managed to stay afloat.
In fact, I'm writing this now to stave off the thirst that has descended upon me like a sudden squall this afternoon.  I'm in an emotional "perfect storm" that has sunk my sobriety on occasions too numerous to count:  I'm feeling low and lonely but also feeling deserving of a reward for my good behavior.  My addict's brain keeps whispering about how much fun it would be to fall off the wagon, how deliciously naughty and how one little relapse won't matter in the Grand Scheme of Things.  (Trying to find perspective in the Grand Scheme of Things is always a bad idea!)
Anyway, it's all lies, lies, lies.  (Yeah!)  I'll just have to limp through this evening like I've limped through the past five months, constantly telling myself that—one day—I'll come through to a calmer, brighter ocean of possibilities.
Days Sober: 5 months, 4 days
Weight: 253 pounds {i.e. still hella fat}

Debt: Currently in denial...