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People all over really are the same. They want to fall in love. They’re glad to survive each day. They pray their children will have a better life than they did. These truths bind us. At least I like to think so.
I don’t push it. There’s no point in arguing with a family’s beliefs or perspectives. They have to get through each day, which makes truth a fickle companion.
Besides, being around booze isn’t one of my triggers. Nights like this one, when I’m feeling overwhelmed and lost and a little bit sad, are the challenge for me.
My mind is a traitorous beast I must monitor at all times. All those thinking games I used to play: I need a drink, I deserve a drink, I swear I’ll stop at just one.
It’s sweet and charming and salt on my gaping wound. Addicts are particularly good at this game. Everyone else’s life is easier, better, happier. If we could be those people, then we wouldn’t need to drink again.
Is that why I do what I do? Because I can’t stand the thought of a life not mattering? Of a child being forgotten? Or a person sinking without leaving behind a single ripple in the universe?
