Les Miserables.

It’s funny, I never really thought about how shitty my circumstances were. I thought it completely normal to crawl through the day, reeking of booze and hoping to keep down whatever little pull that I took in the morning but inevitably puking it all up. Never getting too close to people because if they could smell me I would feel ashamed, and rightly so. I work in the service industry so many people I work with are still actively drinking and doing it the same extent I was, and looking into their eyes I can see myself. I don’t tell people that I am in recovery. Not because I am ashamed, but because I don’t want the focal point. I know that feeling, just whisking through the shift cracking jokes and looking great, but miserable on the inside. Just yearning for that sensation of warmth to course through my belly and to my veins when I finally got the first drink after work. Or let’s be real, usually I would have a bottle of vodka or cheap wine in my car and go out to take slugs a few times a shift. The damp cold forehead that would glisten when I strolled through the dining room. The deep breaths that I would have to actively inhale to get my blood oxygenated. I don’t miss that at all. I am not worried about relapsing today, not because of a higher power, not because I went to a meeting, b because I remember how fucking miserable I was.