HALT

I've had 12 hours' sleep, four cups of coffee and two glasses of Coke. I am awake.
When I got home last night I was exhausted. I laid down for what I told myself would be 15 minutes. I woke up long enough to take two phone calls, change out of my wrinkled beyond repair work clothes, pull on pajamas, take the dogs out (yes, in that order) and wash my face. Next thing I knew it was 6 a.m. Being this awake is a little disorienting. It reminds me that too much of the time I'm operating on way too little sleep.
There are a lot of helpful little sayings in recovery. When you first hear them they sound, depending on your state of mind, like gems of wisdom or trite, dumb-ass sound bites. After you've been sober awhile they actually make a lot of sense.
Take HALT, for example. As in don't let yourself get too Hungry, Angry, Lonely or Tired. Sounds kind of like something Cookie Monster would sing on "Sesame Street," but I can tell you that remaining in any one of those states for too long a time can lead an alcoholic - this one, anyway - dangerously close to the precipice of a relapse.
I managed to hit three out of four this week: I was HLT. As is often true with me, one of them led to another and to the next.
It began with Tired. Tired is not a good state for me. When I'm overtired I am either mopey and snappish or hyper and obnoxious. Every night this week events seemed to conspire against my getting a decent night's sleep. Sick dog. Son stopping by to visit. Going to Mindy's to watch "Lost." Yes, I know, only sick dog was truly an unavoidable circumstance. I stayed up to visit with Daniel, but I could have gone to bed a little earlier. I make no excuses for "Lost." The show ends next week and losing sleep is a price I'm willing to pay to be a passenger on this wacky six-year ride.
At any rate, Tired led to Hungry, as I overslept every single work morning and had no time for breakfast, which made me ravenously hungry at lunch, then overstuffed and logy for the rest of the day. Also, Tired wanted crap food, and I was powerless to resist. I ate like a 6-year-old: sloppy joes, chips, pizza, cookies. This, of course, made me feel more Tired.
Lonely wrapped me in its chilly grip on May 11. It would have been Ron's and my 25th anniversary. This was not a social loneliness; I had lunch that day with my friend Margi, I went to Mindy's house that night. This was that peculiar mix that wells up on occasions when I most acutely feel Ron's absence. I miss the man I fell in love with, the man I danced with to "Sea of Love" at our wedding reception. I am sad and angry that it all became such a mess, I am relieved that the tortured addict he became is now at peace. Mostly, though, I miss him.
By Friday, HLT peaked, and I crashed. I am grateful that the worst fallout of the week was that I had to wear grubby clothes because I was too tired to do the laundry. HALT, or any combination thereof, makes me feel fragile and edgy, which makes me long for an escape. That impulse to escape used to lead me straight to the bottle, and although I've sober more than half my life, I know that I could be led there again if I don't maintain a solid program of recovery.
So I missed my comfortable Friday night routine of eating a giant bowl of popcorn and watching "Medium." But I put a halt to HLT.