Two Months, Two Days, Twenty Three Hours...

I have been sober since Winter Solstice. The darkest and longest of nights.
My alcoholism is like a cruel puzzle.
I never really believed there was a bigger picture to be made. Some pieces were ridiculously large, pointy, stabby, loud, bright, awful. Other pieces were small and rounded and worn. Some were a message, some were silent. I just knew I felt like I never had all the piece I need at once so I kept drinking cuz who cares and why does it matter and no one is looking anyway.
You’d think nine months of pregnancy would’ve been the booze wake up call a person would need.
you’d think becoming a mother would redefine items of importance, reset the triage of life.
You’d think?

​And yet I miss it.
I miss drinking.
​I miss the way nothing was sharp, I could walk around like a dull pencil, used and scrawling.

I miss the fuzz around the edges, the blur. The lack of hard lines meant loose interpretation and back peddling was easier then.

I miss not showing up for myself. I’ve tried it a few times now, showing up for myself. It’s uncomfortable and inconsistent and wobbles like two bad legs on a chair.


I miss the comfort of sick and swollen, padded skin hugging me to numb. Pressure filled and layered and complicated but formulaic.


I miss feeling less.


I miss less feeling.


All this feeling is terrifying and I am like a stunted child filled with uncertainty masked as utter overconfidence defended by weak ego. The vulnerability, the powerlessness, the nerves, the sweat, the smell.
It’s not me.
I left most of what i knew about me at the bottom of a bottle. Crying without it these days is so much more painful.
This new person, this me, is already so tired of feeling and it’s only been a blink. A blip. Time shredding through me like paper cuts.

Sharp.

Clear.

Defined.

Relentless.