I’ve got to quit drinking. Again. Too many people have told me so: family, friends, acquaintances, psychiatrist, GP, social worker, liaison officer, strangers, my own brain, blah blah blah.
The thought of not drinking makes me want to cry a lot so I’m not going to think about it. I just know that I have to get sober again. I’ve accepted it. It is something that I have to do. I’m going to a rehab facility on Monday; I’ve avoided the place for years but I have to do whatever it takes, and it’s my only option left. Which, at 22 years of age, is sad.
There is method to my madness – I am being sensible.
A breakdown is coming: something will happen soon that will throw me into a suicidal stupor, and it is best that I am not drunk when this occurs. I cannot be drunk when R.L’s baby is born, or else I will certainly do something stupid. I don’t know when it’s due but it must be soon. I can’t face it. Knowing how he will be so happy while I will be so sad. I can’t. I’m going to hide for a couple of months and ride out the storm. I hope that they don’t name it any of the names that R.L and I chose for our babies. That would hurt.
Must get sober, must get sober, must stay alive (?)
But first: one last blow out.