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Take two. I'm at 58 days sober. Yes, I count in days. Not weeks or months. It's a lie, when I update this thing, and don't mention how hard it is. I don't have the shakes anymore, and I'm not sick to my stomach. I don't have the nightmares. But every time there's something wrong or I want a little courage or I'm happy or I'm bored, I want a drink. It's hard to explain. It's there, in the back of my mind. When my adviser in school told me, for sure, that this was my last semester and I was on track to graduate with honors, Elliot took me out and we celebrated with sparkling cider in wine glasses. Not even beer. I thought about how stupid and juvenile it was for me not to just have champagne, just once. I thought about how dry and bubbly it was. How Asti is a little sweet, too. I could taste it and I wanted it more than I wanted the seven layer death-by-chocolate dessert we'd ordered. And I love chocolate cake.
It was on the tip of my tongue to order one glass - just one - and share it with Eli. Like five sips would wreck anything. But I knew. I knew it would. I knew if I had five sips, I'd order another glass and then a bottle and then I'd be back to square one. I do not want the third time to be the charm. I want it to stick here and now. I can't be that girl anymore. I can't control myself when I'm drinking, so I need to control myself enough to just not. Some people, they really can stop at one or two. I know that I can't. I want more and I want more and I want to feel that amazing sensation just before blacking out of complete and total carelessness; when you just feel... good.
My parents say they're proud of me. They say that I don't have to move out again until I think that I'm ready, but that they don't mind me staying over with Eli. They like him. They like that he's good to me. They like that he's saved my life more than once. My mom likes that he's respectful and brought her flowers on her birthday and my dad likes that he can talk sports with him. They like that he makes me happy. They know he takes me to therapy most weeks, but they don't know that sometimes he stays and goes with me. I don't have secrets from him. Sometimes, he talks. Sometimes I leave the room so my therapist and he can talk to him alone. I don't know what they talk about. Maybe it's me, maybe Eli just needs someone to confide in, too. I don't know. I don't care. He goes to the AA meetings with me, most weeks, too. I don't totally love AA, but it's a place to go where people get it. Sometimes, I think some of the people in the Tuesday night group I go to are as addicted to AA as they were to alcohol, but I guess in the scheme of things, it's better to be addicted to that than drinking.
I don't talk a lot at the AA meetings. I'm not the youngest one there, though, not always. It feels a little better to know that I'm not the only "kid" in the world to deal with this. And sometimes, when I hear some of these people's stories, I thank God I'm getting the help now, rather than after I ruin my marriage, lose a job, or - God forbid - kill someone. I use the meetings for support, yes, but also reminders. If I don't stop now, I'll become those middle aged men and women who don't have a chance in hell at ever finding normalcy again. I'm scared that they'll judge me. I wasn't as sick for as long as they were. So maybe I have less of a right to be there, but it doesn't matter how long you suffered. You still suffered. I also don't love that they make alcoholism out to be a huge disease. It is. There's scientific proof that addicts can have a certain gene or chemical imbalance in their bodies to make them more prone to addictive behaviors. I get that. But it's also a choice. I knew what I was doing every time I picked up a bottle or snorted a line. And now, I am choosing not to take that drink. God isn't making that decision for me. He's not divinely stopping my hand from grabbing the glass. I am. And I'm proud of that.
It still sucks, though. Let's not lie about that. And even as I write this, even as I'm telling myself how proud I am of myself for making it 58 days, I am desperately wishing I could take it back down to 0 and wake up tomorrow with a couple of empty bottles of rum next to the bed and a splitting headache. Because then, even for just one night, I wouldn't have to be aware of how much it sucks not to be drunk and to have to deal with all the things that get thrown at me. I wouldn't have to deal with talking about Alexandra Beth - who I am starting to have nightmares about again - and I wouldn't have to ... I just wouldn't have to. But I won't. I'm at 58 days today and tomorrow I will be at 59 and then 60. I'll get a two month chip, but I'll still count in terms of days. And on the day that I die - hopefully at a very old age - I will still and always be counting in terms of days. Because this bitch is a one day at a time kind of thing and if I try to deal with it in any bigger steps, I'll lose it all.
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