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I wake scowling. I’ve been finished with my eighth step list for what feels like forever, and, even though I’ve made amends to Mom and Chloe and am starting to rebuild some semblance of a life, I find myself wondering if this is all there is.
Yeah, I’m grateful to be sober, but I’m still a loser. My doctor won’t clear me for full-time work until I hit the six-month mark and I’m only at three months and three days.
May 6th. Monday. Outside, it’s seventy-four degrees and sunny. Inside, I’m dark and dank and miserable.
I pour myself a bowl of Special K and eat that and a banana, then take a scalding-hot shower where I try, unsuccessfully, to slough off my negativity. Nope. Still there. Guess I’m wearing my I-hate-my-life-so-I’ll-wear-all-black-and-look-like-I’m-a-Goth-girl charcoal wif
