All the Goddamn Time (audio) (day 73)

It’s a strange place to be and yet it makes perfect sense, really. I’m just plain over and done with alcohol. I have no desire for it. I am not sad over it. I don’t miss it. I am starting to even pull apart this business of ‘recovery.’ And counting days. Counting toward what? Waiting for something to happen? What? I have no illusions left about what drinking can ‘offer me’ anymore. One is ten thousand it’s all the same. It’s all a lie. It’s all trash. There is no sacrifice because there’s nothing to give up. Just your old life. Just the outdated version of the drug addicted human shell I was.

May I just tell you how solid my confidence is now. May I please just impress upon you that this past weekend I sat at the bar and when I ordered my club soda with lime I felt nothing but elated, delicious, and free. The prison I was in was so fucking stupid. Perhaps the only thing I am in ‘recovery’ from now is a culture which glorifies brain damage.

Something clicked inside on Friday night. I was walking at sunset fantasizing about a glass of wine. Fuck… it almost makes me laugh now just because the illusions ran so fucking deep not so much as even a week ago. As if ‘a glass’ of wine even ever existed. As if if it did it gave me anything it ever promised: sweet calm sophistication, a joyous little life enhancement. Get the hell out. What a whole smoke screen of pathetic.

I used to know a guy who was a sex addict he just didn’t know it. He dressed the whole destruction up to be some kind of romantic chivalry. The seduction of the forbidden as though it were somehow darkly, richly mesmerizing to be held in his gaze. Call it what you want. Obsession with trying to escape yourself in the name of anything is a goddamn waste of time. It’s endless, bottomless, emptiness.

Today is day seventy three for me. Which is very cool. I am very proud. I am exactly where I need to be, being exactly who I am. I would not trade this kind of life for anything. As I sip my coffee in the beautiful darkness before dawn, something tells me even my days of counting days are numbered.