Since writing my last post the last line I wrote started to reverberate around in my head….’guess what I’m not planning to do tonight? Drink.’ Not planning to drink. Not drink. It banged around in my head and somehow I stuck to the idea of not drinking. I didn’t buy wine. I ran my normal errands and went home. I thought about the wine I didn’t buy. A lot. I thought about the glass I would use and how the ice would melt and pop delightfully in the liquid. I thought about how it would taste and feel as it warmed my insides. I thought about what my evening would look like without it. Would I start climbing the walls in need? Would I get restless and itchy? Would I break down and run to the packie before it closed to pick up a bottle? Part of me was nervous. Part of me was very, very unsure that I would actually pull it off.
The rest of me was open to the idea of not drinking.
And that’s what happened.
I didn’t drink.
I drank seltzer with my dinner. I made myself a cup of tea before bed. I read the new book I had checked out of the library the previous day. I tucked myself in and thanked God or whatever is out there acting as a power higher than myself for the first sober evening I had spent in probably 6 months.
I didn’t sleep well, but I slept some. I didn’t wake up in the middle of the night with a belly that felt like lava and fire ants were dancing the quickstep all over it. With heels on. I didn’t crawl out of bed with limbs that felt like they were full of wet sand. I didn’t wake up feeling hungover and miserable. I woke up feeling relatively normal. Not saved or free or ecstatic. But, that’s doesn’t matter because normal is a pretty decent alternative to the way I’ve been greeting my days for years on end.
I don’t want to talk too much about it and get all pumped up and excited. I don’t want to jinx whatever good sense has begun to step onto the stage in my brain. I just wanted to quietly mention that I didn’t drink on Sunday. Or Monday. Or Tuesday.