Let’s face it: I’m never going to make it. I’m not even sure what “making it” means. Maybe that’s part of the problem. I’ve always taken the phrase, “Fake it till you make it” to mean, “Pretend you’re cool with everything, until you’re cool with everything.”

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

Another part of the problem? I’m not a good faker. Sometimes – let me rephrase that. I’m a great faker when it comes to my alcoholism, my addiction, my personal, singular want. However, when it comes to doing things that are not in this King Baby’s best interest, my faking comes off extremely pained and shallow. A crappy performance by a put-upon actor.

The harder I push to maintain the magic veil of “nothing’s wrong”, the quicker it falls apart. Or the more obvious it becomes. Even when it seems like a little thing to me – yes, I’m aware that I’m not in my best head space, but I’m going to plow forward without losing it – that’s possible, you know – me plowing forward with wrong-sized thoughts in my head and everything not turning to shit – resentment – how come everyone else gets to behave like assholes and I don’t? And I’m not behaving like an asshole, even – I’m just irritated that, oh it’s not a big deal, Jesus!

It’s a painful process; starting to bitch about something that’s just part of my daily routine, stopping myself, apologizing and shaking it off… nobody wants to hear that. If there’s one thing I’ve learned about the normals: nine times out of ten, there’s no need to complain because nobody’s listening.

Hence, meetings. Literature. Sponsor and phone calls. Much like the idiom, “the love you take is equal to the love you make”, so it goes that, “the less flack you give, the less flack you shall receive.” And for my sobriety, I need as little flack as possible. I sure as hell don’t need to be manufacturing the stuff in my basement.

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