31
I’ve never kept a diary. I’ve always been too afraid someone might find it, read it, and have me committed. Now, not only do I have to write down everything I’ve ever done wrong, after I’m done, I have to share it.
April says that, until I own my past, I can’t ever break free of it.
According to her suggestion, I’m doing my inventory the Big Book way. When she showed me the chart, I told her it seemed like a lot of unnecessary work, but my sponsor reminded me that doing things my way never worked, whereas following her advice has netted me almost six months of consecutive sobriety, so I shut up.
I take a sip of tea. Cinnamon and hazelnut and vanilla bathe my taste buds. Outside, the vestiges of snow remain scattered on the sidewalk. I walk across the room and gaze down at the Lincol
