By age 19, I had achieved total know-it-all-ness. Since then, I have gotten progressively stupider. Which, I have since learned, is the way it ought to be.
Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God, as we understood Him.
Of course there’s no God. Next you’re going to try to tell me that leprechauns ride on rainbow-striped unicorns. How am I suppose to stay sober by putting everything that makes me, me into the hands of an invisible ever-force?
Well, I used to believe that a chemical liquid was the answer to everything. And it wasn’t even making me feel good about myself; it merely facilitated my disease’s wish to sludge through life in a dullard’s haze. Nothing was worth my time, save isolated drinking.
But that’s the thing about alcoholism: it gets boring. It’s the “tired” part of “sick and tired”. And once that happened, I could clearly see that there was no way I was going to last another ten years living the way I did. I didn’t want to. Everything was smeared with disillusionment and hopelessness. I had seen through it all and found it all to be bullshit. Family, friends, jobs: it was all just a big bag of hooey.
So, if I had all the answers, why was I so miserable? Simple: no one was recognizing my genius. Nobody wanted to acknowledge that I had it all figured out. If only they would listen. Resentments follow.
To let go and let God meant: I was wrong about everything, and a make-believe floating man in the sky was going to cure me. How many messed-up thoughts in that sentence?
The truth? Letting go means stop being an obsessive baby. And believing in something bigger than myself means I’m no longer the center of the universe.
Remember: I would have worshipped a two-peckered billy goat if it meant the pain in my head and my heart would go away.