I wake and want vodka. I go to buy cigarettes to numb the craving a little- so much for Stoptober. And I spend the day fraught with frustration, winding everyone else up with my pacing and negativity. I suspect that all the clichés are lies: it works if you work it? One day at a time? Easy does it? Hah. Rubbish. Recovery is rubbish. The fellowship is a fraud.
I don’t want to go to a meeting.
I get myself to a meeting. Someone makes me a coffee, someone gives me a big smile, a few people I have met before are there. The chair gives me a lot of identification and the sharing is positive… and suddenly I want to cry, and cry, and cry. I listen a lot. Then when my heart stops racing and I think I can control the tears, I speak. My share is short and (I feel) inadequate. It’s a splurge of feeling with a few jokes thrown in. My experience and strength are minimal. My hope is waning.
Afterwards, someone gives me his number. Someone gives me a hug. I walk to the station with two people and we chat recovery. I get told about a lesbian meeting tomorrow in West London. I take the bus home and it seems to go quickly.
I feel calmer. I feel newer. I feel safe.
I feel like getting better.