I really want to count this as day three, because technically yes I did drink two days ago (but not yesterday! And not today!) but it was only a glass of red wine when I got home, and then a gin and tonic sipped slowly in the evening. And that’s normal drinking, right there, ladies and gentlemen, and therefore I should count it as part of my recovery.
What? Counting a normal-to-others evening as ‘dry’ isn’t normal? Ah. Well. Yes, that’s the thing, isn’t it. If I drank like that normally, I wouldn’t be here now, writing the millionth sobriety blog out there.
Nothing happened. I know you want to know what happened, what abyss I drank myself into, whether it was the police or the hospital or the husband who gave me the final ultimatum. Was I unconscious on the street, did social services get involved after I collected my daughters from school one too many times with wine on my breath, did a routine medical reveal irreversible liver damage.
No, none of those. Nothing happened. I just couldn’t stand myself anymore, my denial and my lies. I am sick of trying to remember if I hid a bottle of wine last night and if I’ve managed an AF day yet this week or hell, this month, and I am sick and tired of being sick and tired. I’m sick of my go-nowhere job and my schemes to use my brain in the evenings that lose out to alcohol. I’m sick of being bloated and I’m sick of being fat. I’m sick of diets that are impossible because you can’t drink on a diet, and I’m sick of not exercising because you can’t exercise if you’ve been drinking. I’m sick of myself.
Nothing happened. And if I don’t stop drinking nothing ever will happen, ever again.