Just Shoot Me.

I've been reading some stuff I wrote in the last few years of my drinking. It's not for the faint of heart, I'll tell you that much. It is making me flinch, making me look away. I feel like someone is snapping the bridge of my nose with a ruler, over and over. My nose is now quite sore. I have to walk away and regroup every now and then, take a deep breath before plunging back in. I'm thinking: "Someone shoot this poor SOB and put him out of his misery."

I thought I could pull on my Hip, Slick, and Cool face mask, stroll into The Fellowship, and fool everybody. As if someone in that much emotional pain could pull the wool over the eyes of a bunch of cynical, experienced drunks. That emotion was written all over my face, as obvious to others as the booze oozing out of my pores.



I knew I had a problem way back then. I'm not sure I knew what the solution was yet. I could not imagine a life without alcohol and drugs, although I knew that they were the problem. The Book talks about a "jumping off point." The Book talks about getting to a spot where we can't imagine life with alcohol and we can't imagine a life without alcohol. That pretty much covers everything. There's not any other choices. There's not any other time in the day.


After a while I quit trying to convince people that I was OK. No one seemed to believe me, anyway. They seemed skeptical. It's important for me to keep the wrath of alcohol fresh in my mind. Every now and then a pleasant memory concerning alcohol or drugs will ferret its way into my consciousness. I'll wonder how good the music would sound if I blew some weed, or how relaxed I'd be with a few jolts under my belt.


I need to stay connected to that miserable SOB.