Over and Over and Ove Again.

 Here I am again.  Lying in bed exhausted, puffy, bloodshot eyes, with a tightness at my heart.  I've been here before.  So many of us have been here before.  And for what?  What the fuck is the purpose of drinking?  I gain absolutely nothing, except if you count that brief moment of feeling "normal."  But I don't want that kind of normal.  I want the kind of normal with shiny eyes and glowing skin.  The kind of normal that screams, "I am a badass.  You can keep your fucking poison; I'm raw dogging this life!"  But I'm not there, yet.  YET.  I'm getting angry now.  I'm stuck and I can't get out.  I'm afraid to quit cold turkey and tapering seems to be a painful and slow death.  Over and over and over again.  I don't sleep.  I don't exercise.  I have cellulite above my kneecaps and up my thighs.  This is not me.  THIS IS NOT ME!  I think that's all I have to say today.  There is so much more.  Like trying to figure out what I'm so goddamned afraid of.  Nothing.  There is nothing scary about a sober life.  As a matter of fact, there's only glorious days of feeling everything, good and bad.  Feeling everything means I'm alive.  This isn't alive.  This is a shell of a woman whose children are growing up.  A woman who deserves so much more.  But this fucking little can of beer wins every time.  It tells me I need it.  Just one to take the edge off.  Just one more to up my mood.  Just one more to diminish the depression and anxiety and guilt and shame.  Just one more....

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