I thought that the will to act, the steps taken to face the issue, would somehow support the combat against my addiction.

It does not.

Since I took that appointment at the addiction clinic, since I had my first meeting with a very sweet nurse who was 1000% more receptive and convincing than the former “mental health professionals” I’ve consulted with, I had hoped confronting my issues & deciding to address them would be a first step into helping myself. A first step into reducing, even if minimally, my daily intake. Or make me at ease with the concept of living without a bottle hidden in my rucksack.

It does not.

I’m more stressed out. I’m in constant panic attacks. I’m physically sick if I don’t have access to the stuff. And I’m feeling like I drink twice as much. Which I’m probably doing.

I know it’s a process, a life-changing one. I know there’ll be a grief period; she told me. She told me I’m the only one able to do it. No magic, no technology. Just me.

Just me and that liquid shit.