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April 10, 2017




It's happening again, already. Holy shit, as I look at the calendar I see that I am exactly two months out from June 8th. That was the day I hit bottom in 2014.


I'm sideways.


Not quite right side up. Certainly not upside down.




Sure, my reasons are plentiful for not feeling just so. My aunt/Godmother died in September. My dad died in December. Currently sitting through that huge amount of grief, along with the loss of my two year relationship; my best friend/accountability partner. My co-dependent counterpart.


Did I happen to mention, two teenage daughters? It's a hormonal tsunami on any given day in our home.


Right? This is life on life's terms.


It is weird. This entire sobriety thing. On days I ask, "who signed me up for this?" This life of not having ONE glass of red wine with dinner. No SINGLE cold beer at the river. Not even a SOLO celebratory glass of champagne. How the fuck did I get here?


There are multiple synonyms to administer the word 'one." There is not a thesaurus in the universe that can define my kind of drinking; that of the alcoholic variety. There has never been just one drink in my social repertoire; or for my introverted psyche.


So I sit. In this weirdness. As has happened each year as that fateful date approaches. Nearly as sneaky as the varying moods of PMS. I realize at some point during my day that I am crabby without warning or provocation. Sad. Melancholy.




Facebook memories; the double edged sword. Sitting here this weekend, two months shy of my sobriety date, I am privy to countless reminders of the rapid decline back then, and the epic facade I lived in social media. Photos of puppies being born at my best drinking buddy's house, fluffy quotes about how blessed my life was, TONS of TGIF drink photos (as if I ever waited until Fridays to imbibe), admissions of relaxation (hangovers), fun women's only brunches with the chilled mimosa photos (minus the two or more jumbo sized champagne bottles, already consumed), and passive aggressive posts about heartbreak; always playing the victim.




There are moments I feel pangs of remorse about those old rituals left behind, and the friends who also dissipated in the wake of my recovery. Rather burdensome to explain; I am truly 100% happier on any given day dispossessed of alcohol. I can 100% guarantee that I have no desire to return to the bleak existence once barely recognizable as "life". Existence is the key word: that was all I could muster in the midst of my deep, silent anguish.


Yes, I am fine.  I can look back and discern that many of those “vintage”  moments are not as grim as my mind would have me believe. However, I cannot afford to romanticize the authenticity of my addiction; there is no glamour involved in the last stages of active alcoholism.


The blessing of this lopsided journey is that it grants me the opportunity to summon the true memories of where I came from, not so very long ago. I  am reminded to embrace my recovery and the tools that now adorn my spiritual portfolio. What worked in my earliest days of sobriety. I can't be complacent with my humility, it is imperative to employ the basics of what works. Whom I can count on. Let people love me, while perhaps I am finding it hard to love myself...


...from this temporary and slightly contorted angle.




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