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The question I’m hearing more and more lately? “I‘m ready to start living my life. You?”

My tired, rote answer? “No, I’m still trying to figure my shit out. Then I can start living. The two things are mutually exclusive. Every alcoholic knows that.”

Step 3: Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood him. 

Of course, that’s not what I say out loud. Out loud it’s all sures and you bets. It’s couched, it’s hesitant, and it’s vintage me, because even with my bets hedged, I’m an out-and-out liar on any given day.

Those days may be lessening in frequency, but when they hit, and my mind starts believin’, all kinds of irrationalities explode along my synaptic nerves. The new question? Will I swallow any and all insanities of my own creation? It’s these very things that I categorize under “figuring shit out” that are the true lies I’m telling myself – a lie within a lie, if such things are possible and understandable.

I’m hoping that most of this falls under old behavior. And how much of that hope is a lie? Isn’t all this introspection and self-questioning something of a mind-twist; alcohol being cunning, baffling, powerful? If I was to stare deep into my own eyes in the bathroom mirror at this point, I may pass out.

I think the clinical terminology is, “head up your ass.” My mind is being ridiculous, and not in a good way. So lighten it up. Get up and go look in the bathroom mirror and laugh at the monkey. Any depressurization is most welcomed.

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