when you’re married to an alcoholic.

At least I do.

I used to sit in there and cry.

Sometimes I would leave the house, get in my car and drive around the corner before I let myself cry.

Other times it would be when I was coming home from somewhere and I’d sit in my car and cry before going into my house.

I seem to not do that anymore.

The crying in my car.

Have my tears all dried up?

I don’t know but I still sit in my car.

Often.

Last night it was after I had gone to the grocery store.

I just sat there in the dark parking lot.

Eating chips and onion dip.

Yep, I am a car eater.  (As in I eat alone in my car, not I eat cars.)

It is 100% emotional eating.

I don’t need a shrink to tell me there is nothing healthy – emotionally or physically –  about sitting alone in your car, in a dark parking lot, eating copious amounts of potato chips and dip.  I suppose a well-lite parking lot wouldn’t be any better.

My car is both my sanctuary and my hell.

It insulates me from the realities of my life, temporarily anyway, when I just can’t seem to face them.

But it also invites out my demons.

Chips, soda, cheese danish from 7-11 that probably sat in a warehouse for months before making its way to the convienence store shelf.  Why don’t we ever self-medicate with fruit or vegetables?  Maybe a little “binge” eating of cucumbers and humus.

There is a fine line between seeking solace and hiding.

I cross it regularly in my car.