I Messed Up

I drank again. I did it. I went to a wedding and I had a drink. Several, actually. I justified this decision to myself, telling myself that I had worked hard to stay sober for several months and that I was among friends and that I deserved a drink. What does that even mean? Who deserves a drink?

I know what causes my alcoholism. Now I do. Finally and uselessly. It’s called cowardice. I am afraid of literally everything, and drinking helps me to temporarily set aside these fears that I have and relax. Fears that – for the most part – rarely manifest to anything other than my exponential angst.

I was doing so well in sobriety. But I became too pious; too high and mighty and this bothered people that I care about. I started to worry that I was becoming the preachy sober guy, and I didn’t want that tag. I tried to be someone that presented himself as the fun, carefree socializer that was free from the burden of that next drink, that next high. It didn’t work.

I hate myself for feeling so fantastic after three drinks, for forgetting my problems and simply enjoying the moment. Alcohol helps in this regard, and I can never deny this. So why can’t I loosen up and socialize without it?

So now I am back to square one. I got drunk and I had a blast and now I have to pick up the pieces.

Maybe I need to become a stoner. I have plenty of stoner friends, and they don’t worry about much except their weed supply. That sounds pretty inviting. To be fair though, they don’t have much in the way of ambition either, so maybe the wacky tabacky isn’t for me.

 

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