Soph, one of the times I was drinking, I did some krazy krap and fractured my skull. I can still feel the fracture; it feels like an indented line about an inch long. Whenever I put serious thought into getting a bottle of gin, some limes, and some club soda, I put my fingers to that fracture. It's a pretty vivid reminder.
Also, the memory of wetting my pants a few times because my bladder had gotten so weak serves as a good deterrent.
I mean, I
felt good when I drank. I felt happy. The memory of my destructiveness negates how good I felt, though . . . if that makes sense. I destroyed my life. I don't have a friend left in the world. I am lucky my husband and parents still want something to do with me. I ruined my credit and will have to pay cash for the next car I get. I ruined any chances of having anything other than minimum wage, menial labor jobs. I ripped everything asunder.
Sometimes, I wonder if it's even worth it to still be alive after all this. I feel like I have nothing left, nothing to look forward to. I often question whether I should just go back to the drink and finish the job.
The reason I don't: I have a commitment to those who care about me. My life, the things in it, might get better sometime down the road
if I continue not to drink. If I go back to the drink, though, all is lost.
Happy Friday.
