I woke at 5am, worrying. Things haven’t been going well. We were on holiday last week, and every evening we drank wine, possibly less than normal but I went to bed feeling tired and argued unnecessarily with my husband. Back home, I have begun to sneak drinks again. And it is the sneaking drinks which is the biggest red flag of all, that and the deep-seated knowledge that I’m never going to fix this unless I stop drinking.
The writing is on the wall. I know it is, so why is it so hard to accept, and to take the action I know I so desperately need to take? It’s as though the alcohol voice is trying every last ditch attempt to keep me stuck. It masquerades as a voice of reason, endlessly promoting moderation, when I haven’t been able to moderate for years now. I never can, and I never will.
So, back to 5am, and through my worry I formed a plan. I’ve made many plans in the past, but I’m still going to try again. And I’m enlisting all the help I can.
It’s a murky, foggy day here in the UK. Unpromising in some ways, but I’m still determined to carry on along my path. The process of writing here, of sharing this, helps me.