First Post

Hi. My name is GG, and I’m an alcoholic. (Insert slight cringe here.) Today is Day 18 of being in recovery.

I went to my fourth AA meeting  last night. I’m still trying to find the group or location to call home. I guess if I need a meeting, I don’t need a home group per se, but it’s nice to see or be somewhere familiar. The place may remain stable, but the faces may change over time because that’s the nature of addictions. Sometimes it takes you out and woos you into having “just one or two”, so you’ll fit in. As one fella said, it’s out there doing its push-ups, waiting to have its way with you.

Last night’s closed meeting was about newcomers and the importance of hearing the stories.

It was interesting to hear the different views on what works and pitfalls.  A commitment is not enough if one is not doing the work (the steps), has a lack of commitment to one’s program, has no sponsor, isn’t hitting meetings, or isn’t reaching out to others who have been in the program for a while.

I left last night’s meeting invigorated and ready for the battle ahead. I got home and ordered a few books about nutrition and recovery, the A.A. Big Book 4th Edition, and felt on my game as I prepared for battle.

Today, right now, I am flat out craving a tropical cocktail and some Mexican food. I’m hungry and ornery.

Earlier, I went to a movie at a theatre I have not ever been to. They serve tasty-looking cocktails that on any other warm autumn day, I might have enjoyed. After passing through that closed section, I forgot about it. Later during the movie, one of the scenes had a full-swing party in celebration of the success of the main character, including the not so fun part of the day after, the hangover.

I honestly miss getting a buzz on. But one or two isn’t enough these days. And truth be told, that pisses me off because I LIKE the flavor of cocktails. Forget the IPAs, the wine snobbery, and the sweet yumminess of well-made mead. I enjoyed the hell out of anything tropical with rum in it, a chocolate martini or even a white Russian, make it a double.

But it certainly isn’t very elegant or classy to find oneself on the floor in the kitchen, unable to get up off that floor. I was painfully aware that I didn’t know how I got there, let alone not even knowing if I actually passed out or blacked out. That was 25 days day ago. That was my low point, or my bottom, as they call it, I guess.

I felt so physically and spiritually ill that Sunday after, my very own September 11, that I wanted to die that day. I could not seem to find my equilibrium, and I swore that if I was still that bad in 24-48 hours, I didn’t want to live.

Here I am. Still.

And I’m going to go cook myself some dinner. And then I am going to read something good about living sober. Because I want to. I need to.

They say it’s never too late to start over. Even though I can see the distant horizon of the Age of Crone, today I am born again as the new day, down to the hour, minute and even next 30seconds, if need be. Yeah, that’s what it is going to take sometimes. And I’m cool with that.