Climbing Uphill

Two Years.
Tomorrow is my Soberversary.
I will have been sober for two years.

An achievement, to be sure.
But holy fuck is it hard. So. Damn. Hard.

I'm an alcoholic. I know I can't have one drink and not have another.
So I abstain. And it kills me. Because I really fucking miss beer. And wine. God, I miss wine.
I've started buying funky, pretty wine glasses that I find at goodwill. I pour juice or soda or sometimes even water in them, and I pretend. And those few minutes when I'm on the balcony, smoking a cigarette, drinking my fake wine... Those are the best minutes of my day.
And that's a problem.

I had a panic attack in the grocery store not too long ago. I was looking for non-alcoholic beer.
I've finally found one I like. Kaliber. (Classy, right?)
Well, I must have spent twenty minutes in the beer aisle, just saying hello to old friends (micro-brews), before I realized that the store didn't carry what I was looking for.
So I walked ahead and turned left, to make a beeline for the door. But detoured in the wine section.g
And then the liquor section.
And then I got dizzy, and somehow ended up back in the beer section crying on my cell phone in the middle of a Safeway.
My room mate talked me down and got me out, but ballz...
There's so much anxiety that goes into not drinking.

I'm an extrovert! I need to go out, enjoy the nightlife, go dancing, kick ass at karaoke!
But it is So. Damn. Hard. to walk into a bar and not order a drink.
After accidentally being served a non-virgin margarita (strawberry! Mmmmm) at a restaurant a while back (Thank god my room mate noticed the smell), I've taken to having friends test my drinks first because I'm so paranoid.
I walk into a pub and I start shaking. My room mate leaves her empty wine bottles on the counter, and I want to lick them clean for any traces of Two Buck Chuck that might be lingering.

I'm an alcoholic. I can't take one drink and not have another.
You know that line in Jeff Buckley's "Hallelujah" about Samson...
"She tied you to the kitchen chair, she broke your throne and she cut your hair, and from your lips she drew..."
That's what it feels like.
Booze ties me down. The wanting, the depression, the anxiety, the weight of resistance.

They come upon me like Pinkerton Detectives. Depression on my left, Loneliness on my right.
They frisk me, and empty my pockets of any joy I may be carrying. Loneliness starts interrogating me. Why can't I get my act together? Where will I end up if I keep living this way?
Depression simply gives me a dark smile, settles into my favorite chair, puts his feet on the coffee table and lights a cigarette. Loneliness climbs into my bed. He's going to make me sleep with him tonight, I just know it. And I'm too tired to deal with their bullshit.

Two Years.
I've been sober for two years.
Can I do this for three? For ten? For a lifetime?
Drunk or not, Depression and Loneliness always stop in to say hi.

I hate AA. I hate the sharing, the platitudes, the obvious and unhealthy direction to simply replace one addiction with another. But one thing I took away from my (very) brief time with them...
I'm not going to drink today. And I'm going to wake up in the morning, and I'm not going to drink tomorrow.
That's all I need to worry about. Just today.

It's been Two Years. And I'm not going to drink today.

Life is Short; Eat Dessert First

Back again. Hospital time.
Have I mentioned how much I hate hospitals?
I hate the waiting, the smell, the uncomfortable chairs...
And I really hate the food.

What is the deal with hospital food?!
Dry, tasteless, unappealing... But I have to eat something.
And God knows that the cafeteria is cheaper than the vending machine.
...But not much.

Grandma is back in the hospital again.
Cancer. Again.
So we're taking out her Thyroid this time.

The woman is 89 years old. She was born in 1925. She's old.

And normally she's got a great attitude. But she is just not loving it this time.
She keeps asking "Well, why do I have to do this? I just don't see why I have to do this!"
To which we keep telling her ..."Well, you don't."
To which she replies "Well, it's too late now."

My mom's worried about this one.
She's not coming out and saying it, but she's worried that Gram isn't going to come out of this one.
And I'm doing my best to be supportive. Dotting all the "I"s and crossing all the "T"s, and checking in as often as I can, and being loving and calm and supportive.

But all I want to do is run screaming out of here.
Away from all the smells and bad food and uncomfortable chairs.
Away from the overly friendly nurses with the hesitant eyes.
Away from the incessant clucking of the women in the chairs across from me.
Away from the truly shitty food.
Away from the whirring and beeping of machinery.
Away from all the scary possibilities of death.

I just want to run away. Find a place to lounge and cry and have someone hold me until I feel like myself again.

But instead, I'll drink my shitty coffee and eat my dry doughnut, and wait.

I fucking hate waiting.