Some typical Saturday morning around 7:30 in a Wal-Mart parking lot, while concluding my morning routine, a friend called and we chatted for a bit. Then, for some reason, I dialed him back. And had a breakdown. Sobbing, mucus.
We admitted we were powerless over alcohol – that our lives had become unmanageable.
He’d known me when I went through rehab back in ‘95. Between gurgled sobs I confessed something I’d known for years: my alcoholism was now full-blown.
He talks me off the ledge; gets his wife (a nurse) on the phone as well, and they calm me down. Who knows why I dialed him back that morning. Perhaps the right combination of booze, loneliness, hopelessness and, most importantly, desperation.
After a solid 30 minutes of reassurances, I hang up with a plan in mind. Flushed with the can-do spirit and using my buzz for good, I look forward to putting it into action.
Tomorrow. See, I’d already spoiled the day with drink, so it would have to wait. In the meantime, I’d spend the day happily swimming through my impending good intentions.
Today, I recognize: tomorrow never comes.