Basic, instinctual drives. That’s my id at work. Nothing wrong with that. I can see where the id would be valuable in the wild. But, thankfully, I didn’t spend my days looking for food; just liquor. The id is a survival instinct; one that I twisted a craving to fit the bill. Survival is no longer the goal: comfort is. Not only do I need things not to happen, I need constant reassurance of my own awesomeness.

Actually visualizing him as a giant, diapered, crown-wearing baby does demystify his power to some degree. But there’s always a part of me that’s kind of proud when I see how big and strong can Baby can be. However, I cannot treat my disease like an infant. Given the opportunity, King Baby would crush my head in its bare hands and giggle, all for a cookie it glimpsed behind me.

That’s my alcoholism at its finest: a perpetually wanting machine.

Almost anything will pacify baby in the short-term. King Baby will accept substitutes, for a while. Sugar,caffeine, nicotine, exercise, shopping, cleaning, reading, watching. They are escapes with a little “e”.

The trouble begins when I start agreeing with King Baby. And when then the rationale of a giant fat baby makes sense to me, look out.

Today’s Mission: I don’t have to  live with a screaming baby. Just because it’s screaming does it mean I’m failing. The fact that I noticed the screaming at all is growth.

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