Yesterday was pretty rough. My brain box sounded like a thousand scorching espresso machines auditioning for the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.
Today I felt a wee less desperate. Just wee.
However, I also felt the all too familiar pang that peeks its head over the fence after a few days of successful sobriety: the “oh, I’m totally fine and never actually had a drinking problem” feeling. It’s the one in which you think you’ve smashed the hard reset button and suddenly your motherboard isn’t completely fried.
Wrong! That feeling is an adroit liar.
After lunch, as I contemplated my bus route home (no car, remember?), I knew I’d have a decent 40-50 minutes (depending on the route) to kill after work. This meant food… and… drink? Those lilting voices of reassurance cooed, “you’re all good, kiddo,” and I nearly convinced myself I’d have just the barest sliver of enough time to guzzle a martini, shovel a few salty snacks in my face, then shimmy home.
“You don’t have a problem. In fact, you’re perfectly normal. So just get a drink and shut the fuck up already.”
I rode the wave of flawed thinking and false feelings until I couldn’t stand my own bullshit anymore. So I got a turkey and pesto panini w/ a decaf Americano (what a combo!) from this bomb ass coffee shop across the parking lot at work. It was a fantastic dinner. Perfectly satisfying. Utterly delicious. My will feels stronger, and that’s pretty fucking awesome.