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Dear God…

Dear God, I won’t ever drink again.

I’m enveloped in a desert of darkness. I have morphed into a black hole.

I am not asleep. I am not awake. I am in total blackness. Pain sears through my neck and my body. I can’t swallow; I shoot up straight in bed and blink.

Dear God, I won’t ever drink again.

Panicked, I see my alarm clock unplugged and thrown across the room. I’m still in last night’s clothes. They smell like smoke, beer and remorse.

I feel sick. I need to hydrate.

Dear God, I won’t ever drink again.

I jump up, glance at the calendar. I’m two hours late. I scramble through my brain to find an original, non-alcoholic excuse. I stumble to the refrigerator – wine and beer. I cringe, but also wonder if it will steady my hands. I reach for the orange juice.

Bad choice. I sprint to the bathroom.

Dear God, Please take away the spins. I won’t ever drink again.

I lay on my bed. The whole room is spinning around me like a tilt-a-whirl at the fair. I slip into unconsciousness for minute – or two. I bolt upright again.

I HAVE to go into work; otherwise I AM an alcoholic.

Dear God, I won’t ever drink again.

I sit on the tub floor as the water pours over me. I use half bottles of soap, shampoo and conditioner to try and wash away the smell of shame.

I crawl out of the tub and sit on the floor with a towel draped over me, head in my knees. I want to cry but poison has drained my emotion.

Dear God, Take away the spins. I promise I won’t ever drink again.
I stand up and look at myself in the mirror. Skinny. Good. “At least I’m skinny.”

The nebulous voice pierces my shallow thoughts ‘A skinny, sloppy drunk. You ate pizza and bad food. You threw up on someone. Skinny counts for skinny.’
I loathe my reflection. I despise my own existence.

I find a bagel and tear little pieces off to slowly try to nourish my body. I bring the blow dryer to the floor plug and lean on the wall for support. I give up and put my passion-fruit-smoke-scented hair into a clip. I spray half a bottle of honeysuckle spray on my body. I sprint to the bathroom.

Dear God, I won’t ever drink again.

I arrive to work with a half of a hash brown and Sprite finally settled in my stomach. I steady myself, smooth my black suit, push my shoulders up back and down, and walk confidently into the office. I sprint to the bathroom.

Beautiful, well-dressed women who shatter glass ceilings by 8am are flocked around the mirror, primping their mid-morning faces. I put my head down and head straight for the stall.

Dear God...

Dear God, keep me silent in here, I won’t ever drink again.

I hear the laughter echo out of the stall as their expensive (and modestly applied) perfume clashes with my smoke-scented honey suckle apocalypse. Their laughter wafts over me, and that dismal voice in my head says, “You will never get a promotion, why do you even bother?”

I wince as a flashback of the night before pops into my brain and I quickly block it out. I squeeze my eyes together and put my head on my knees.

I drift. I’m in a bathroom stall. I need sleep.

Dear God, get me to my desk. Help me focus. I will never drink again.
I painstakingly explain my lateness to my boss’s sorrow-filled eyes. He listens, accepts, and sends me on my way.

I eat most of my lunch. I churn out a few reports. Normalcy returns to my physical body by 3pm. I start to feel better and hear the voice in my head say, “Last night was fun.”

I’m angry with God.

Dear God, why can’t you just help me drink normally?

A drinking buddy runs over to my desk. “We are heading to Baxter’s for wine and cheese night.” I nod.

I sprint to the bathroom, re-apply my face, spray more expensive perfume on my skin, and adjust my hair. I change into my party clothes. I guess I must have thrown them in there this morning. I shrug. The angels sit in the corner and look upward. God is gone.

 The ambiguous voice says, “You need this. This is who you are. You can control it.”

I walk to the exit. My mind is gray. My thoughts are gone. The voice is gone.

God is gone.

Dear God…

I get into my car, light up a smoke, crank the tunes and drown out all the voices.

The angels sit back and watch over the destruction. They hold hands and look upward.

Dear Father, Please guide her to a solution.




This post was submitted by Laurie.

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  1. The raw emotion in these words will stay with me forever. I remember a time where I could smell the smoke in my hair. The imagery guiding me through this one day is powerful. May angels forever hold your hands and lift you upwards. Loves.

  2. Very powerful! Many mixed emotions for this post, both from the thoughts of your struggle and from the wonder of the thoughts my father had when in these type of moments, if that makes since.

  3. Yep.
    I found that work interfered with my drinking, so I usually didn’t have that concern. Otherwise, you did an incredible job at drawing my pre-recovery thought life.
    I’m glad to have found you (all). There were no blogs when I crawled into the rooms, but if there had been, I wouldn’t have been able to spend much time there. It’s a phenomenal resource, and I also hope to contribute to the sober universe with my small contribution. Please drop by if you’ve got a few!

  4. I’ve been sober for 14 months now and I find that I try very hard not to think about my drunken past. This post reminded me of me and all that I used to be. I can be proud of who I am now. Thank you for helping me to see this through your words.

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