Two days ago was two years sobriety.  In the two days since, I think I’ve had something like four major breakdowns. Of the three days and two nights spent vacationing at a water park, I managed not to ruin one of the days and one of the nights.  Separate from that, I was once again off the reservation, out in the wilderness, screaming and crying.  Nothing is getting better.  How many days out of the last 732 was I a full-on dry drunk?  Days where I let things fester, did nothing about it, and continued down the path of complete craziness?  Getting so out of tune/whack/sync/whatever that my irrational and out-and-out insane thoughts are not only given merit, but are also handed over the reigns to my thinking?

Step One (what else?): We admitted we were powerless over alcohol, that our lives have become unmanageable.

I’m literally banging my head off the wall, and yes, I’m using that word correctly.  Maybe actual pain to my frontal lobe will do the trick, because whatever this is that I’m living isn’t any kind of life I want for myself or those around me.  And if I don’t start getting my shit together, I’m going to have to bow out of human interaction.  I’ve lost all taste for it.  I don’t know how to do it, and it’s getting extremely frustrating, and the longer it continues, the more sense total isolation makes.  And this isn’t just self-pity.  This is straight-up truth, painted on a billboard next to the off-ramp: It’s Not You, It’s Me.

I get so outside of myself that I take on the position of full-time hater, where everything is doomed and crap and unfair.  Nobody gets a break, because nobody warrants one.  Just a big, never-ending flow of judgement towards everything I feel everyone is doing wrong.  Case in point: tattoos used to be cool.  Now every office worker that runs a half marathon gets a big 13.1 circle tatted to their leg. And those Aboriginal wooden nickels stuck inside an earlobe?  I mean seriously, what the fuck?

Maybe I’m just jealous that I don’t have the confidence or self-worth to slap a logo on my shoulder or deform my face with needles and pins, because I can’t imagine doing those things for any reason other than attention.  But I’m not them.  Maybe they come from a place of complete self-awareness and self-love, where these things aren’t desperate cries for help, but are actually self-expression at its most pure; so beautiful that I can’t even fathom it.

So I’ll be attending a new meeting tonight.  Shake things up.  Try something new.  I’ll still hit my others, but it would appear that I’m becoming extremely complacent; like I’ve got this whole recovery program deal figured out.  Well, if that’s the case, why am I driving off to an empty parking lot to cry? It would seem that my alcoholism is telling me that the program doesn’t live up to the promises.

Well maybe they would, if I actually carried through on even half of the things I need to be doing to not only keep myself sober, but also to achieve some sort of serenity.

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