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Worry. Anger. Depression. Self-pity.

My own, personal four horsemen. Must be an apocalypse coming. Thanks to alcoholism, the opportunity for one is daily.

Worry. That everything good will turn bad. That everything average will turn bad. That everything bad will find a way to get worse.
Anger. At people, places and things. At myself for being worried and angry. At myself for being.
Depression. Lethargically overwhelmed. ‘nuff said.
Self-pity. I can’t accept, have no confidence, no ability to cope.

I can’t believe they don’t have their own action figure line.

Individually, they could be handled to some degree. Together, they became more than the sum of their parts, like a bunch of Transformers. Once containment was lost, the only course of action left was to ignore it. And nothing helped me ignore like booze. It was the bag over my head that saw me through the day. Time became a fog bank, one that absorbed self-reflection and responsibilities. Tomorrow was always around the corner, and I’d get better then.

Flash forward a decade. I’m still waiting on that corner.

It often begins with distorted perceptions. Make-believes that I can worry on, work up anger to, feel hopeless about, and blame myself for it all. Take your pick; it’ll all end up unsatisfying and disappointing. It’s a neat little perpetual motion machine that somehow built itself in my head. Feeling the process pass from phase to phase is rewarding: I knew what to expect, and I got it. Confirmation. Validation.

All of the above was my life. The best I could get was a big fist of righteous anger. The worst was paralyzing fear and dread. Those were the outcomes available. Slim pickings, right?

This was all before I worked the program, and began putting tools in the box for future use. Years of doctors, psychiatrists, psychologists, and self-help books never gave me a plan of action. Most likely because they weren’t alcoholics, and I didn’t trust them. I needed to be surrounded by those who have walked in my moccasins. People who can look at the big bag of crazy I drug out into the middle of the room and say, “looks a lot like my bag. Here’s how I make mine lighter.” Finally, a kindred spirit. Once I found that I wasn’t alone in my crusade against W.A.D.S., it became easier to continue the fight.

I should really make some t-shirts.

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