…I can breathe a little bit better.

I’m like 18 days in on my new workout routine. Well, not “new,” more like “the thing I stopped doing because I’ve been real busy and/or depressed the last few years.”

I’m explicitly not to trying to lose weight. I don’t give a shit about my weight anymore. Whatever. I’m fine with this body being the size and shape it is.

But I do want to be able to climb stairs without having to take a break to catch my breath. And the exercise is surely, if slowly, doing what I want. I’m exchange, my legs are just like constantly sore. Still a fair trade.

Also, I haven’t had a drink in… three weeks? That’s it? Ugh. Sobriety would be easier if it didn’t feel so long.


…I didn’t buy more rum over the weekend.

I’ve been dying to stop by the liquor store for the last month. I ran through all the gin and rum we had in our home stock and now it’s just beer and wine – the stuff I don’t drink.

Every time I drive I make excuses to get closer to the store so I can drop another $100 and restock. The discomfort I have when I go home empty handed is all the proof I need that I’m doing the right thing. I need to know I can go without.

I take comfort knowing I’m not desperate enough to drink the stuff I hate. I’ve got no temptations at home. Just my wallet burning in my pocket.

This is a special kind of misery that’s worth it.


…my drinking is under control for now.

I think.

I mean, it’s been really goddamn hard to tell these last couple years. I might be a functioning alcoholic that just doesn’t know it yet.

Like, I’ve knocked back 3-4 drinks on a random Tuesday more than a few times during lockdown, and I’ve had to specifically track alcohol expenses under their own tab on my monthly budget spreadsheet. I’ve also more than once just caved in during what was supposed to be a dry week.

But on the other hand, I have successfully had a dry week now and again. And I’ve never been late to work or missed appointments or failed to do the dishes because I was too drunk or hungover.

So I don’t know man, maybe this is how every alcoholic’s story starts. Probably. Don’t think I ever heard anyone say, “I was totally sober and dealing with life for thirty years, then one day I just decided, fuck it, now I have to be drunk all the time.” My understanding is that all addictions begin with a series of promises that you break because they’re very small, and once you realize how easy it is to lie to yourself, you lean in.

I guess I’m not at the stage where I’m lying to myself. I know I drink too much. But not so much that I feel entirely helpless. Just like a sort of sometimes-helpless.

I need to start writing another book again. I tend not to drink too much when I know I’ve got something to keep busy. I wouldn’t call it “mania” because I’ve seen actual bipolar disorder up close and personal, and my highs and lows aren’t nearly as pronounced. But I think my highs and lows are like bipolar’s lazier cousin – the highs are just strong enough to be useful when I’m riding them, and the lows are just strong enough that I feel compelled to drink to ride them out. The problem is, lately I’ve been drinking through the highs, too, and that just fucking sucks. If I can get started on another book, I’ll keep that high going smooth and steady right up tot he finish line.

I mean, I know I’ll feel like shit when I finish writing it and have lost my purposes again, and suddenly the world will go back to being dark and helpless and I’ll want to crawl into bed, but at least I won’t be drunk at the time. That’s worth it.