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.
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.