Drainingly familiar is what it used to be like. A loop of insanity that ran clickety-clack down the track whenever I took over command of the U.S.S. Me. I was the last person that needed assistance when things were going good.

Step 2: came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.

The problem is, I’m an alcoholic. At some point, I’m going to look at the exact same stuff I just got done praising and feeling strong and confident about, and find it all to be wrong and wanting and weak. How can Exhibit A elicit two completely opposite reactions?

I’ve dug my foxhole so wide and so deep, I no longer knew I was in a foxhole. As a result, nothing became my higher power. I believed in nothing because it just made good sense: the idea of believing was false, because it required hope. It just seemed so random, the winners and losers, and why must I think in those terms?

That’s a whole bunch of mental sludge to trudge, but such was my modus operandi. Feeling the drag I put upon myself, the resistance, meant life was difficult, and difficult meant problematic, and problematic meant failure. And I’m off and running. It’s a remarkably effective 3-step process that can take weeks to truly soak in, but once it has, it’s lovely, because I’ve now tricked myself into believing that there is no happiness; only the acceptance of misery, and in that I can take solace. Like, it’s cool, because I’m in the know.

Today: Even at the end of the drive, if everything turns out to be true and it’s all a load of pointless crap, am I to receive a trophy for being right? Will those living in the now finally come to me with saddened eyes and apologies for not spending enough time in self-induced pain? What does being a perverted form of right get me, anyway? At least today I know this much: it sure ain’t happy.

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