Day 8
Member
Thread Starter
Join Date: Apr 2018
Posts: 5
Day 8
Hello. This is my first post. I spent almost an hour writing my story, but my computer flaked out on me and I lost the entire message. So I'm going to try again. I'm warning you, this is going to be a very, very, very TL : DR, so bare with me. It's gonna be long.
Before 2006, I was a casual drinker. I could go out with friends and have a few drinks, get a nice buzz, go home, and wake up without a hangover. Everything was fine. I love in Ohio now, but I got really homesick for my hometown in Dayton, Tennessee. So in the summer of 2006, I moved back to Tennessee. And that's when it began. All of my friends were married with kids. I found out my recent ex eloped with a new man. I was completely alone. I started picking up six packs every night after work. At first, it was ok. Nothing big. Just a mild buzz. But my funds were shrinking even though I had a serving job. I stopped by a liquor store on the way home and noticed a 750 mL bottle of Korski was only seven bucks. I did the math -- $6 for a six pack every single day, but a whole bottle of vodka for one dollar more! I could make it last! So I bought a bottle. I figured if one shot roughly equals one beer, I would do only six shots. But then it wasn't six shots, it was twelve. Then twelve turned into half the bottle. A week later, it was an entire 750 mL bottle a night.
My second week in, I began to notice a change in my body. At first it was just my bottom lip quivering on its own. It wouldn't stop quivering. Then I noticed that I would wake up covered in sweat. I mean, drenched. My heart pounded so hard it felt like it would burst out of my chest. And the nightmares. My god, talk about some extremely vivid, extremely terrifying nightmares. As soon as I would get out of bed, I'd start to dry heave. If I did puke, it was egg-yolk colored bile. A day later, I noticed my hands were shaking uncontrollably. I couldn't even squeeze toothpaste onto my toothbrush without missing.
During this time, I was working as a server at a famous chain restaurant. Our policy was to lean down at the table so you could see the customers eye-to-eye. When I would try to write their orders down, I could barely hold my pen. One of my customers noticed this and we exchanged glances. His eyes lingered on mine, and he discreetly nodded. I'm sure he knew what was up. Heck, it looked like chicken scratch. I couldn't even read my own writing, much less the line cooks.
Again, it got worse and worse. I would polish off an entire pint of vodka before work. Towards the end of my shifts, my hands began to shake again, I was confused all the time. I made mistakes that I normally never did. It was hard for me to talk -- my brain couldn't form the right words sometimes. Co-workers were like, "Huh? What are you talking about?" I ended up avoiding talking to them altogether. I just wanted to get in, work my shift, then get out and race to the liquor store to get my Korski. The clerk knew me by name by then. I assumed that was kinda a bad thing. This was when I was in Tennessee. I realized I had made a terrible mistake moving there. I called my mother and begged her to come bring me home.
So I moved back to Ohio. And I couldn't believe it. It got worse. Korski was $6 for a 750 mL, and not $7! What a deal! I was back to my old habits. A pint in the morning to make me "normal" for four to six hours. I had a few of those little tiny booze bottles in my work apron. But even those only worked for a while. On top of that, I'd sneak into our dry food storage room and chug from the Franzia cooking wine. I just picked the box up, pressed on the spigot, and chugged and chugged and chugged. One day, the prep manager went to get the Franzia for a recipe. He noticed it was almost gone. No one said anything, but the next shift, I went to the back room to chug some more Franzia, but there was a lock on the door. I dropped the F bomb.
I got a sweet fine dining job after I quit the chain restaurant. Ironically, I as a bartender. Not a good thing for an alcoholic. We had enough booze on hand, so much I was able to finish off an entire bottle of prosecco. We had a huge surplus of it, and no one ever counted it for inventory. So, yes, I was getting buzzed at work. Then one day, on my hour break, I ran across the street to the liquor store and chugged another pint of vodka. When I came back for my second shift that day, the owner grabbed my arm and said, "You're wasted." I started to cry. "Stop crying and get out. You know you're fired." She had the manager drive me back to my house.
I bounced around from job to job. All serving. So one morning, at 2 AM, I had a "moment of clarity" and called a crisis help line. She gave me the number to an outpatient clinic. I went there the next morning at 8:30 AM. My withdrawals were at their peak. I spoke with two clinicians. One handed me a cup of water and he noticed how bad I was shaking when I took it from him. He asked if I was hot. I said no, but I was oozing sweat. I tried to talk to them, but couldn't really form words coherenty. My head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. He asked if he could place a finger on my wrist to count the pulse. He told me my heartbeat was racing. "You need to go to the emergency room immediately." I said no.
Hold on. Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself... Two years ago, I noticed my pee had a weird copper-color. I was a little concerned, but didn't do anything. This continued for about a week. Then, when I pooped, it was tar black and had the most awful odor you could imagine. Not like normal poop. Normal poop smells like, well, poop. No, this was an entirely different smell. I ignored it, too. So I cracked open a Natty Daddy and tried to drink it. After each sip, I vomited. It looked like coffee. Hematemesis.
The next day at work, I asked a coworker to drive me to the ER. They admitted me in immediately. Oh man, that was a nightmare. I had three or four nurses in my room, poking me with IVs, pumping blood bag after blood bag into me. They gave me another IV drip of vitamins and magnesium sulfate. The most embarrassing thing happened -- a gorgeous black nurse told me to roll over onto my side. She shoved a finger into my butt. I'm not lying or trying to be crass. She had to do it, it was part of her job. Let me tell ya, guys, a finger all the way up the butt is EXTREMELY uncomfortable.
They brought me to my room and hooked me up with more fluids. Every four hours they'd come in and give me an Ativan. The doctor knew what was wrong: gastrointestinal bleeding. I had an open ulcer. They took me to another room and shoved a long tube down my throat. I can't really remember what he said or did, I was outta it from the Ativan. I guess he used some kinda laser to close it? I don't know. I was there for another nine days. When I was discharged, the doc wrote me a script for Ativan. I took them as directed, and guess what? IT WORKED! It really, really worked! I felt wonderful! No urges, no anxiety (I'm diagnosed with GAD).
But then the pills ran out and I couldn't get a refill. I've never had a personal doctor, and I've never had insurance -- ever. I was good for about a week or two, but then my anxiety came back. So I relapsed again.
I kept drinking and drinking and drinking. The withdrawals were even worse this time. In 2017, I went on a three day bender. Four big bottles of vodka in that short amount of time. Right before I finished the last bottle, I knew what was in store for me the next day. So, I called 911 and told them everything. Within two minutes, two cop cars were outside. I grabbed my wallet, phone and keys and went outside to greet them. I thought I was going to get arrested. "Am I going to jail?" I asked? (I was still beyond smashed at this point.) The cops said no, I was doing the right thing. One of the cops went into his patrol car and gave me an official looking police badge. It said "CRIME FIGHTER" across the shield. I guess he kept them to give to little kids caught in domestic disputes. The ambulance showed up, and everything went just like the first time, minus the bleeding ulcer. When I was discharged, I got another script for Ativan. Again, took it as directed, and once again, it worked. I was awesome for a month! I felt healthy enough to return to BMX bike racing. I got number three in my division in the entire state of Ohio!
But again, later, my anxiety kicked back in, even harder than before. I tried to fight the urge, but failed. I tried meetings, I went to faith based support groups. But it didn't help. I started hitting the vodka again.
Sorry for the rabbit trail.
I kept on drinking. And drinking. And drinking. I lost a second job. So in another "moment of clarity" I called a crisis help line. She gave me the number to an outpatient clinic. That was 8 days ago. When the councilors saw how bad I was shaking when I reached for the cup, the male clinician asked if he could test my pulse. "You're heart is racing. Are you hot?" I was oozing sweat. I could barely make coherent sentences. "You HAVE to go the ER right now. We insist. You don't have to, but you kinda do." I knew he was right. So I followed him to the local ER. They rushed me in, did all the same procedures as before. Nothing new to repeat about that third visit. The doc wrote me a script for Librium, and it did its job. I took it as prescribed, along with tons and tons of Gatorade, water and Vitamin B pills. But now the Librium is gone. I took my last one today. I don't have a private doctor and I've never, ever had insurance -- ever. So no chance on refills. (Don't worry, I don't abuse pills, I always use them as directed).
So, it's seven days in with no booze. I feel 90% ok physically, but I still have a little bit of neuropathy. My hands are still shaking just a little bit, but I've been told the shaking will go away completely in time. I've been eating healthier now: fruits, bananas, sandwiches. Sometimes I take a slice of bread, roll it up into a ball, and chew it until I can swallow it.
Now I'm looking for a new job. I go in for a second interview at a super ritzy golf resort as a server tomorrow (well, it's 12:40 AM, so I guess today). I know none of you know me, but if you wanna pray for me, send me positive vibes, talk to your crystals for me, I'm sure God or whatever will hear.
What makes me the most discouraged other than the constant urges and anxiety for booze is my writing. I LOVE to write. I'm about 150 pages into my novel. But here's the weird thing: I write waaaay better while drunk. Don't judge, just try to understand. I tried to write again, but this time sober. I couldn't do it. Nothing came to me. I just stared into a blank word processor. Before, it just flowed out, as if someone else was writing through me. Even re-reading it sober, I was like, "Man, you write better drunk than sober!" So I decided to postpone my story until my brain can repair itself enough for me to be creative without booze. I don't want to be another Ernest Hemingway, Hunter Thompson, or Jack Kerouac.
Anyway, that's my story, guys.
How do you all fight the urges? Especially the newer ones in recovery. I know there is wisdom with age, but I want to talk to someone my age (I'm 38) who is in the same boat as me. Well, it doesn't HAVE to be someone my age. I'll take anyone's advice.
Again, sorry for the super duper long intro.
Thanks,
Rocketpunk
Before 2006, I was a casual drinker. I could go out with friends and have a few drinks, get a nice buzz, go home, and wake up without a hangover. Everything was fine. I love in Ohio now, but I got really homesick for my hometown in Dayton, Tennessee. So in the summer of 2006, I moved back to Tennessee. And that's when it began. All of my friends were married with kids. I found out my recent ex eloped with a new man. I was completely alone. I started picking up six packs every night after work. At first, it was ok. Nothing big. Just a mild buzz. But my funds were shrinking even though I had a serving job. I stopped by a liquor store on the way home and noticed a 750 mL bottle of Korski was only seven bucks. I did the math -- $6 for a six pack every single day, but a whole bottle of vodka for one dollar more! I could make it last! So I bought a bottle. I figured if one shot roughly equals one beer, I would do only six shots. But then it wasn't six shots, it was twelve. Then twelve turned into half the bottle. A week later, it was an entire 750 mL bottle a night.
My second week in, I began to notice a change in my body. At first it was just my bottom lip quivering on its own. It wouldn't stop quivering. Then I noticed that I would wake up covered in sweat. I mean, drenched. My heart pounded so hard it felt like it would burst out of my chest. And the nightmares. My god, talk about some extremely vivid, extremely terrifying nightmares. As soon as I would get out of bed, I'd start to dry heave. If I did puke, it was egg-yolk colored bile. A day later, I noticed my hands were shaking uncontrollably. I couldn't even squeeze toothpaste onto my toothbrush without missing.
During this time, I was working as a server at a famous chain restaurant. Our policy was to lean down at the table so you could see the customers eye-to-eye. When I would try to write their orders down, I could barely hold my pen. One of my customers noticed this and we exchanged glances. His eyes lingered on mine, and he discreetly nodded. I'm sure he knew what was up. Heck, it looked like chicken scratch. I couldn't even read my own writing, much less the line cooks.
Again, it got worse and worse. I would polish off an entire pint of vodka before work. Towards the end of my shifts, my hands began to shake again, I was confused all the time. I made mistakes that I normally never did. It was hard for me to talk -- my brain couldn't form the right words sometimes. Co-workers were like, "Huh? What are you talking about?" I ended up avoiding talking to them altogether. I just wanted to get in, work my shift, then get out and race to the liquor store to get my Korski. The clerk knew me by name by then. I assumed that was kinda a bad thing. This was when I was in Tennessee. I realized I had made a terrible mistake moving there. I called my mother and begged her to come bring me home.
So I moved back to Ohio. And I couldn't believe it. It got worse. Korski was $6 for a 750 mL, and not $7! What a deal! I was back to my old habits. A pint in the morning to make me "normal" for four to six hours. I had a few of those little tiny booze bottles in my work apron. But even those only worked for a while. On top of that, I'd sneak into our dry food storage room and chug from the Franzia cooking wine. I just picked the box up, pressed on the spigot, and chugged and chugged and chugged. One day, the prep manager went to get the Franzia for a recipe. He noticed it was almost gone. No one said anything, but the next shift, I went to the back room to chug some more Franzia, but there was a lock on the door. I dropped the F bomb.
I got a sweet fine dining job after I quit the chain restaurant. Ironically, I as a bartender. Not a good thing for an alcoholic. We had enough booze on hand, so much I was able to finish off an entire bottle of prosecco. We had a huge surplus of it, and no one ever counted it for inventory. So, yes, I was getting buzzed at work. Then one day, on my hour break, I ran across the street to the liquor store and chugged another pint of vodka. When I came back for my second shift that day, the owner grabbed my arm and said, "You're wasted." I started to cry. "Stop crying and get out. You know you're fired." She had the manager drive me back to my house.
I bounced around from job to job. All serving. So one morning, at 2 AM, I had a "moment of clarity" and called a crisis help line. She gave me the number to an outpatient clinic. I went there the next morning at 8:30 AM. My withdrawals were at their peak. I spoke with two clinicians. One handed me a cup of water and he noticed how bad I was shaking when I took it from him. He asked if I was hot. I said no, but I was oozing sweat. I tried to talk to them, but couldn't really form words coherenty. My head felt like it was stuffed with cotton. He asked if he could place a finger on my wrist to count the pulse. He told me my heartbeat was racing. "You need to go to the emergency room immediately." I said no.
Hold on. Sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself... Two years ago, I noticed my pee had a weird copper-color. I was a little concerned, but didn't do anything. This continued for about a week. Then, when I pooped, it was tar black and had the most awful odor you could imagine. Not like normal poop. Normal poop smells like, well, poop. No, this was an entirely different smell. I ignored it, too. So I cracked open a Natty Daddy and tried to drink it. After each sip, I vomited. It looked like coffee. Hematemesis.
The next day at work, I asked a coworker to drive me to the ER. They admitted me in immediately. Oh man, that was a nightmare. I had three or four nurses in my room, poking me with IVs, pumping blood bag after blood bag into me. They gave me another IV drip of vitamins and magnesium sulfate. The most embarrassing thing happened -- a gorgeous black nurse told me to roll over onto my side. She shoved a finger into my butt. I'm not lying or trying to be crass. She had to do it, it was part of her job. Let me tell ya, guys, a finger all the way up the butt is EXTREMELY uncomfortable.
They brought me to my room and hooked me up with more fluids. Every four hours they'd come in and give me an Ativan. The doctor knew what was wrong: gastrointestinal bleeding. I had an open ulcer. They took me to another room and shoved a long tube down my throat. I can't really remember what he said or did, I was outta it from the Ativan. I guess he used some kinda laser to close it? I don't know. I was there for another nine days. When I was discharged, the doc wrote me a script for Ativan. I took them as directed, and guess what? IT WORKED! It really, really worked! I felt wonderful! No urges, no anxiety (I'm diagnosed with GAD).
But then the pills ran out and I couldn't get a refill. I've never had a personal doctor, and I've never had insurance -- ever. I was good for about a week or two, but then my anxiety came back. So I relapsed again.
I kept drinking and drinking and drinking. The withdrawals were even worse this time. In 2017, I went on a three day bender. Four big bottles of vodka in that short amount of time. Right before I finished the last bottle, I knew what was in store for me the next day. So, I called 911 and told them everything. Within two minutes, two cop cars were outside. I grabbed my wallet, phone and keys and went outside to greet them. I thought I was going to get arrested. "Am I going to jail?" I asked? (I was still beyond smashed at this point.) The cops said no, I was doing the right thing. One of the cops went into his patrol car and gave me an official looking police badge. It said "CRIME FIGHTER" across the shield. I guess he kept them to give to little kids caught in domestic disputes. The ambulance showed up, and everything went just like the first time, minus the bleeding ulcer. When I was discharged, I got another script for Ativan. Again, took it as directed, and once again, it worked. I was awesome for a month! I felt healthy enough to return to BMX bike racing. I got number three in my division in the entire state of Ohio!
But again, later, my anxiety kicked back in, even harder than before. I tried to fight the urge, but failed. I tried meetings, I went to faith based support groups. But it didn't help. I started hitting the vodka again.
Sorry for the rabbit trail.
I kept on drinking. And drinking. And drinking. I lost a second job. So in another "moment of clarity" I called a crisis help line. She gave me the number to an outpatient clinic. That was 8 days ago. When the councilors saw how bad I was shaking when I reached for the cup, the male clinician asked if he could test my pulse. "You're heart is racing. Are you hot?" I was oozing sweat. I could barely make coherent sentences. "You HAVE to go the ER right now. We insist. You don't have to, but you kinda do." I knew he was right. So I followed him to the local ER. They rushed me in, did all the same procedures as before. Nothing new to repeat about that third visit. The doc wrote me a script for Librium, and it did its job. I took it as prescribed, along with tons and tons of Gatorade, water and Vitamin B pills. But now the Librium is gone. I took my last one today. I don't have a private doctor and I've never, ever had insurance -- ever. So no chance on refills. (Don't worry, I don't abuse pills, I always use them as directed).
So, it's seven days in with no booze. I feel 90% ok physically, but I still have a little bit of neuropathy. My hands are still shaking just a little bit, but I've been told the shaking will go away completely in time. I've been eating healthier now: fruits, bananas, sandwiches. Sometimes I take a slice of bread, roll it up into a ball, and chew it until I can swallow it.
Now I'm looking for a new job. I go in for a second interview at a super ritzy golf resort as a server tomorrow (well, it's 12:40 AM, so I guess today). I know none of you know me, but if you wanna pray for me, send me positive vibes, talk to your crystals for me, I'm sure God or whatever will hear.
What makes me the most discouraged other than the constant urges and anxiety for booze is my writing. I LOVE to write. I'm about 150 pages into my novel. But here's the weird thing: I write waaaay better while drunk. Don't judge, just try to understand. I tried to write again, but this time sober. I couldn't do it. Nothing came to me. I just stared into a blank word processor. Before, it just flowed out, as if someone else was writing through me. Even re-reading it sober, I was like, "Man, you write better drunk than sober!" So I decided to postpone my story until my brain can repair itself enough for me to be creative without booze. I don't want to be another Ernest Hemingway, Hunter Thompson, or Jack Kerouac.
Anyway, that's my story, guys.
How do you all fight the urges? Especially the newer ones in recovery. I know there is wisdom with age, but I want to talk to someone my age (I'm 38) who is in the same boat as me. Well, it doesn't HAVE to be someone my age. I'll take anyone's advice.
Again, sorry for the super duper long intro.
Thanks,
Rocketpunk
Member
Join Date: Aug 2016
Location: Derbyshire Dales, UK.
Posts: 2,618
Hi and congratulations on day 8 
If your novel is as interesting as your post, then I for one, want to read it.
I know I always used to write essays better for Uni, when I was tired - took the edge off the worrying about whether it was good enough - perhaps you could try that too? Much better than drunk
If your novel is as interesting as your post, then I for one, want to read it.
I know I always used to write essays better for Uni, when I was tired - took the edge off the worrying about whether it was good enough - perhaps you could try that too? Much better than drunk
Member
Thread Starter
Join Date: Apr 2018
Posts: 5
Originally Posted by Zanna 
Hi and congratulations on day 8
If your novel is as interesting as your post, then I for one, want to read it.
I know I always used to write essays better for Uni, when I was tired - took the edge off the worrying about whether it was good enough - perhaps you could try that too? Much better than drunk
If your novel is as interesting as your post, then I for one, want to read it.
I know I always used to write essays better for Uni, when I was tired - took the edge off the worrying about whether it was good enough - perhaps you could try that too? Much better than drunk
It started off as a pew pew pew! story with space battles and such. But about a third of the way in, I introduced two new females. The captain became smitten with one of them, and it quickly turned from thrilling space opera to a romance. Weird, dude. I thought I couldn't write women very well because, well, I'm a guy. I asked my editor how to write women. He emailed me back. "Are you kidding me? How to write women? Just write them like you write any of your other characters. You got this!" And you know what? He was right! Like I said, it felt like it wasn't even me writing the story. I could hear their voices in my head (no, not in a schizophrenic way) and each and every character write themselves.
Is there a General Forum for things that aren't about recovery here? Like a sub-forum for general stuff? I'd love to share a chapter with you. Actually, it has everything to do with recovery. I'll go ahead and share it here. Mods, if this is inappropriate, feel free to either remove or delete it.
Hold on, let me cut and paste the latest chapter. Well, it's only half of the latest chapter:
***** Keep scrolling down ****
Kallastra pressed on Ace's cabin tone. She waited. She pressed it again.
The cabin door dilated. "What? Whadda you want? It's off time."
"You are the captain. There is no off time."
"Come in."
"Aristotle. I am not worried for you. I am, however, concerned. You are your own person, but I feel like you are making wrong decisions and going down improper passes."
"What's that s'posed to mean?" he asked, rubbing the stubble on his chin.
"Aristotle, Serafine has read your mind many times. You have asked her to. What she has found concerns her. And if it concerns her, it concerns me. I love you."
"Yeah. I love you, too."
"You do not love yourself."
"What?" he asked. He stood up.
"Sit down," Kallastra said. "This was obvious, Aristotle. We all saw it coming. You just keep getting worse and worse. I no longer trust you on missions, now. You have become sloppy, you have become a mess."
Ace sat down. He sighed. "I could buy 'em illegal, ya know," he said.
"No, I do not," she replied.
"Medicine. Pills. Things that'll fix me. I know they do."
"They have."
"But I can't get to 'em legally. I gotta jump through so many hoops to even get considered, it's pointless. And if I get to someone who can help, they won't help me. Distrust. They got a way to help me, but they won't help me. I don't deserve help. So you wanna know what I do?!"
Kallastra stood up and straightened her back. "Aristotle, you are starting to upset me."
"You're upset? YOU'RE UPSET? She read my ****ing mind, and I know for a FACT she could fix me! But you said she isn't allowed. And I know for a FACT those precious little pills will FIX ME. I cannot fix myself, is this not obvious?"
Kallastra placed her thumb on Ace's neck. "Calm down. I do not know what to do right now."
"Yes, you do. There are three options. Three. One: Serafine rearranges my brain. Two: I get access to medical help that I need. And I ain't gonna get it. Three: just cash it in, baby. Call it a night. It's been a fun run."
"I do not... you... I do not..."
"You never use contractions and it drives me f***ing nuts! Gah!"
Kallastra punched Ace in the head. He fell to the floor, unconscious. "You deserved that. Good night. You do not need a pill. Pathetic. But I still love you. Why? I do not know."
She walked out of his cabin and returned to her own. "I can use contractions. I am a queen. I choose not to."
*******
Mods, sometimes don't permit cuss words, that's why there are asterisks in lieu of the actual words. I hope this doesn't break any forum rules. Don't wanna get rapped on my knuckles on my first post, LOL.
Administrator
Join Date: Apr 2007
Location: Australia
Posts: 211,439
Hi and welcome RocketPunk.
I was really glad to get to the end and see you're sober. That's the best way to be - even if you're a writer.
I write songs mostly but I thought I wrote better drunk and high too - I had all my heroes with me, Bukowski, Kerouac , Chandler, Dashiel Hammett...
But I lost my creativity by the end of my drinking. Totally gone, Couldn't write a good sentence to save my life...literally. Not for several years before I quit.
I thought it would never come back - and it didn't for a long while after I got sober - but it did eventually .
Talent is innate. We have it or we don't.
It's not dependent on any substance.
It might *seem* like it's easier with a drink - and I do have to work harder at it now but thats ok...I don't have to edit so much wild eyed purple prose this way so it evens out
That booze creativity transaction with the Devil comes with a lot of fine print.
I'm glad you found us and I hope you stick around. SR helped me turn my life around.
I know we can help you do the same.
I was really glad to get to the end and see you're sober. That's the best way to be - even if you're a writer.
I write songs mostly but I thought I wrote better drunk and high too - I had all my heroes with me, Bukowski, Kerouac , Chandler, Dashiel Hammett...
But I lost my creativity by the end of my drinking. Totally gone, Couldn't write a good sentence to save my life...literally. Not for several years before I quit.
I thought it would never come back - and it didn't for a long while after I got sober - but it did eventually .
Talent is innate. We have it or we don't.
It's not dependent on any substance.
It might *seem* like it's easier with a drink - and I do have to work harder at it now but thats ok...I don't have to edit so much wild eyed purple prose this way so it evens out
That booze creativity transaction with the Devil comes with a lot of fine print.
I'm glad you found us and I hope you stick around. SR helped me turn my life around.
I know we can help you do the same.
Member
Join Date: Apr 2017
Location: Australia
Posts: 374
Welcome, Rocketpunk. SR has been a great place for support and advice for me, and I'm sure you'll find the same. I'm also in my 30's and early in recovery (43 days), although I'm a woman. How do I fight the urges?
*Stay busy
*Drink endless cups of tea and coffee (soft drink sometimes as well--I know this isn't the best substitute, but anything that's not alcoholic for the moment)
*Take a hot shower or bath
*Come here and use the chatroom or post
*Support others on SR
*Exercise
*Focus on the positives of being sober
*Play the tape forward....what will happen if we take that first drink? What will happen if we CONTINUE to drink for say another 5-10 years?
Hope that's somewhat helpful. All the best on your journey and good luck with the interview! Stay close to SR.
*Stay busy
*Drink endless cups of tea and coffee (soft drink sometimes as well--I know this isn't the best substitute, but anything that's not alcoholic for the moment)
*Take a hot shower or bath
*Come here and use the chatroom or post
*Support others on SR
*Exercise
*Focus on the positives of being sober
*Play the tape forward....what will happen if we take that first drink? What will happen if we CONTINUE to drink for say another 5-10 years?
Hope that's somewhat helpful. All the best on your journey and good luck with the interview! Stay close to SR.
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