Righting The Ship And A Little Grumpy About It (NOT AT ALL CHRISTMASY)

I have not been writing.  Not anything. 

What I used to do was buy a case of beer and a pack of cigarettes, bring my laptop out to the front porch and write until my eyes wouldn’t focus or until I ran out of beer.  It was really fun.  It was pretty much my favorite thing to do. 

Right now I am on the porch smoking and drinking a Becks Non-Alcoholic Beer (all of the calories without any of the drunk).  I’ve been sober for six months in a row and I’m really proud of it.  It’s been nice walking the earth without the yellowed claws of shame and regret ripping at my bowels.

But I miss beer.  I miss writing and drinking too much beer.  Beer was the reward for putting my butt in the chair.  Beer made it more fun to stay in the chair.  And for better or worse – usually worse – it made me want to tell you everything. 

Sitting down to write without drinking is awful.  It’s really boring.  I would rather do anything else.  I would rather clean the bathroom.  I would rather check my credit card balances.  I would rather cut matted hair off of my dog.  I would rather take an internet quiz to find out which Love Actually character I am. 

The September 29th entry in my journal:  Gosh, I wish I had more time to write but I’ve been so busy fixating on my wart. 

Not drinking is great.  I mean it sucks, but big picture, self-esteem/anxiety/depression-wise it has been the right decision day after day.  Not writing feels wrong though.  Easy and empty.  Untangling the two demands a kind of emotional nuance and discipline that I resent.     

A lesson that is emerging maybe is that as hard as it is to stop doing a destructive thing, sometimes it’s harder to start doing a healthy thing. 

Gross.