I’ll Call It

Well, a few hours until midnight but I feel pretty good I won’t blow my seven months - at least not tonight. Went to a GA meeting. It helped. It always does. Do I feel miraculously cured? No, I do not. Still not entirely sure I won’t cave in tomorrow and toss away seven months of striving and work and diligence that, if I’m being honest, has morphed into not giving a fuck and some denial and “maybe I’m better” chatter.

BUT - I won’t gamble tonight, so that is a good feeling.

Going to take a bath with some wine and a book and hope that tomorrow I can start another round of kicking the drinking, too. I know - absolutely know - I have to stop. I know this. Alcohol is a weight that keeps me, at best, flat and, at worse, stuck in a hole with just my eyes peering out at the world where everyone else seems to have it figured out better.

That’s not reality. I know that’s not reality. I’m good. I’m worthy. I have a lot of great qualities. I have some improvements to make, but I’m worth improving. I know that’s the truth.

Yet and still, alcohol tells me, “You’re not enough. You’ve never been enough. You’ll never be enough, so just keep drinking because you’re never going to do anything anyway, so you might as well be numb and sedate on the couch.”

OK, I’ll take it for tonight. I don’t want to stop just yet. But I’m certain if I’m going to live the life I’m meant to, I’ll have to stop. Or I’ll also return to gambling. The depression, the drinking, the gambling is one fucked-up trifecta, and I’ve got to make it defunct.

 
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