Sixty days ago I arrived at a beautiful rehab facility, still drunk from the night before and the first thing they did when I arrived was take my purse full of pills away from me.
It’s been sixty days since I last took any sort of drug or took a sip of alcohol. That’s insane. I remember sitting in a meeting around 20 days thinking “fuck, there’s no way I’m going to make it to 30.”
Somehow I did, somehow I have strung together 60 days. Somehow I didn’t go running from rehab, even though I wanted to many times. Somehow, once I was out, I didn’t go pick up a bottle of whiskey that I know is sitting there for the taking, right around the corner.
Some days I really want to scream and yell and wonder why I’m doing this to myself, and if everyone else knew how wrong it feels to be sober you all would be a bunch of alcoholics and pillheads right by my side.
But most days I feel grateful, because I know that had I not stopped, had I not found a solution, I would have died. And for the first time in my life I can breathe easy, knowing that I’m no longer on my convoluted suicide mission.