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The day I got sober (after my epic post-rehab relapse) I woke up with wine stains on my shirt, my lips, my teeth and at least 3 or more spots on the floor and random pieces of furniture. I'm sure a few drops even landed on the dogs.
I had pickled myself again.
And I was well beyond tired of it.
Tired of my old bullshit. Tired of running. Of hiding. Of numbing and avoiding.
Of ruining everything – my happiness and health included.
I wasn't just tired of it – I was sick of it, quite literally.
Sick of keeping myself in a constant state of illness. Who in their right mind willingly volunteers to fill themselves with a disease every day?
The cycle of self-sabotage was dizzying and I wanted off.
So I made the decision to end it, without the safe-word of "maybe". I knew there wasn't room for "maybe I'll try it" or "maybe it's time". I had to put aside my wishy-washy tendency of sitting on the fence, perched somewhere between optimistically committed and fearfully uncertain.
I had to climb down and choose a side.
Was I going to side with the part of me that thought I could maybe try and stop drinking and see how it goes? Or was I going to side with the part of me that was screaming for certainty and decisiveness – a solid commitment without grey areas, and without maybes.
Because maybe almost always mean yes.
I had to be all in. I had to throw my maybe's to the curb and put my big boy pants on and make the decision that no matter what, I was no longer going to drink. That I was done taking my happiness and health for granted and that I could admit with every ounce of my worn out being that after 2 decades of hardcore daily research – I was never going to find anything worth keeping at the bottom of any bottle.
I had never found anything in the past other than sickness, shame, debt and regret. Why in the world I thought the results would be different each time I drank is beyond me.
You don't keep doing something you know and have proven time and again to yourself only causes pain – like stubbing your toe on the corner of the bed. We don't keep walking over and kicking it every morning after we've done it once and realize it hurts like a bitch.
YOU'RE PURE FUCKIN' GOLD!
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