I sit here, a drink in my hands. I cannot bring myself to partake of it.
A recovering alcoholic at the tender age of sixteen, although now many years have passed, I realise my mental health is worse than before, and that this will not help me. However, I still cannot put this drink down. It will solve things, if only temporarily. Keep drinking. When your timer runs out pour another and you need not worry.
That’s not how it works. I’m wrong. I know this. But who will tell me so? I wait, but here no one confirm the truth.
I take a sip. A mix of bliss and nausea.
A mistake. No. I can’t seem to see it that way. The sickness, the nausea. It’s in my mind. A drink can fix it all. Drink until you can’t hear no more and then the truth has changed. I have fixed everything. I fixed everything when I fixed the first drink, when I fixed the sixth, and when I fixed myself up the next morning. It’s all worth it in the end.
Right? No. No. A part of me will always argue back. The part of me that hated the taste. The sickness. The hangover. The cleaning up the next morning.
I am left nowhere. I have solved nothing. Do I take the sip, or do I not?I’m looking for a reason not to drink, knowing I don’t need a reason at all…. I’m not making sense. A drink could fix it all.