I travel purposefully as a sober person towards a vague destination. Sobriety for me isn’t a fixed point I can achieve, more a vague ideal that I shuffle closer to, one day at a time, knowing that really the purposeful work is done in the traveling not the end point.
Yesterday I was questioning if I should still write. My home life is still rocky, and I’ve felt pretty crap since my meeting on Wednesday when my ego decided no one liked me. Many people have said to me that the relationships that I hold dear will take most time to heal, and looking at the anger and rage of the last few days I do not doubt that one little bit. I am sober because I want to be. If people can’t support me in that, even when they are cross or upset, then that does not mean I should question my own motivation or give up completely. God, this is so much harder than I thought it would be.
Not picking up a drink is only the first part, the emotional turmoil that follows is immense. I wonder if I drank to dampen my emotions or feelings, no I have no alcohol crutch I am *feeling* everything so keenly that even minor slight can nearly reduce me to tears. Writing gives me an outlet, and I feel safe writing here. Also who am I to argue with the Doctor?
I found this image yesterday, and for me it perfectly encapsulates why I write, only the body I am dragging is my own own, history, wilfulness and all. I have taken into account the advice I have been offered, and I do not feel that I am being unkind to others or myself in these posts. I also do not mind having a digital record of how I felt at this time- it’s all good evidence to remind me never to succumb to temptation. Turns out dragging a body isn’t that bad after all.