Once I was at ground zero, pink and exposed, I was ready to begin anew. I was grateful for the blanket that was wrapped around me, which accepted me without judging my shortcomings. And within minutes, I found this blanket extremely itchy.
We admitted we were powerless over alcohol – that our lives had become unmanageable.
I was sad that the life I’d known – one of isolation and pain, resentment and anger, would have to be driven asunder if I were to have any chance at living as a “normal”. Give me the rut I know over the rut I fear, any day of the week.
Sure, the process seemed hard, and that frightened me, as I was lazy and pessimistic. A certain amount of action was required on my part, something beyond eye-rolls and deep exhalations.
This is alcoholism in its truest, most twisted form: whatever brain mutations necessary. If I was brimming with confidence, it would fly me up over the clouds to the nearest liquor store. If I was crushed with self-pity, it would drag me through cold mud to the nearest liquor store.
It ran hot or cold, depending on my mental state. Like a thermos.