I am Better!
She’s asleep now, a pattern of slow rhythmic inhalations and exhalations intermittently disrupted with a soft sniffle. She’s already forgotten the reasons she started crying those memories having vanished with hugs and I’m sorrys. She’s resting . At peace. So why aren’t I? Why do I find it so difficult to forget, to forgive to start anew? My stomach aches, my head hurts, my heart beats heavy and I torment myself with disparaging analysis of my own worth. I have failed her. I’ve failed them all. I’ve failed myself. My execrable behavior has left me demoralized, ashamed. She’ll wake up tomorrow joyous, excited to start another day. Carefree and happy. I’ll rise apprehensive, still doubting. Anxious to prove that I can be better. That I am better.
It doesn’t matter what happened or why. That is past. What matters is that there are never good excuses for bad behavior.
Drink, customarily my deliverance, is past as is the majority of my debasement. I’ve nowhere to turn. Although addicting and somewhat soothing, I scarcely consider Java Chip Frappuccino intoxicating or for that matter, escape. And proclaiming, “I’ll take a Grande Java Chip Frappuccino with 2 extra shots of espresso, whole milk and yes—I want whipped cream on that” doesn’t quite seem to convey your total self loathing and utter frustration quite like, “Holy F***! I need a drink!” That, and the fact that there’s Grey Goose in the cabinet, not Starbuck’s.
It beckons. Softly. Silently. The voice of an old friend. Like a lover. At times it screams loudly. Taunting. Daring. Like a lover. Either way, the voices are omnipresent. My will is tattered, beaten down and San Pelligrino doesn’t burn like vodka did.
