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on fighting the call of the bottle


The call is in my blood.  The fight is not.

Too many, maybe all, have succumbed to the call and nary I saw a war wavered.  The call. It haunts me.

It is the dread of being forty-eight years old if your father passed away at forty-nine. You prepare and stand guard. Hopeful yet haunted.

I awaken at the three am hour daily, my stomach feeling as if I am coming out of plank position.  Preparing.  For something.  A nervousness felt before heading on stage to face a crowd.  A stance prepared before heading into battle.

I turn on my lamp.  There is no crowd. A bamboo plants stares at me.  She whispers, “Be always ready”.

I stare at my bare walls. Minimalized.  There is no thing to distract me or lead me to believe this is home, except the dream catcher above my bed.  There is a home in every dream.

The emptiness motivates me to keep going until I reach the place where decor feels like self-expression and not staging.

The emptiness discourages me and tells me to quit, until I reach the place where nothing feels like nothing.  Until my tears fall into the calling of the bottle to be swept into a sea of hollowness, tempting to empty me, of caring.

I curse the chords of the bloodline that laughs at me.  Laughing at my inability to answer the call, knowing my battle has been made light.  I am sickened after two glasses.

The irony.

What am I grateful for?

~ Studying alcoholism as a teen to prepare myself to battle it.  I discovered my risk of becoming an alcoholic was sadly in the home run probability of statistics.  Though it is the sheer number of generational alcoholics in my family that keeps me on guard, not the statistics.  

~ The responsibility to keep the chains broken.  I have been entrusted to keep it so, for myself, my children and theirs.

~ Knowing that low tolerance does not erase risk.



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