"Worry is like a rocking chair. It gives you something to do, but it doesn't get you anywhere."
For at least the first decade of my drinking career, calling myself an alcoholic, at least to the people sitting on the barstools next to me, was not a problem. Bragging rights. "I don't know how I got home, I was so messed up." Expressions like these were commonplace. But by the second decade, I started losing coats, keys, apartments, jobs. The progression of alcoholism with all its subtle and in-your-face changes is not a straight downward descent. It is marked by peaks and valleys. My third decade of drinking was littered with lapses in employment and housing. That new normal required that I drink at home, alone, when I had a home. By that time, I was not worried by alcoholism, I was worried about the next drink. Increasingly I drank more. My blackouts would occur around the end of the sixth drink and I would continue to drink until I passed out, usually two or three hours later, by my recollection.
"The further alcohol took me away from myself, the less I understood that I was losing my foothold. From the outside, I am sure it looked like I was becoming more and more selfish, but increasingly, I was not feeding myself, i was feeding my disease. The more selfish I may have appeared, the more my disease had dissolved my self away."
Not worrying in my addiction was really a form of defeatism. In recovery, not worrying is a positive thing.
Recovery: Do the next right thing, the next right thing.
End of story.
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