And You Don't Drink

… AND YOU DON’T DRINK

The pain is worse than you can ever remember. You look up and say the Serenity Prayer and nothing happens. You pace the floor and sit down and light a cigarette and then get up and fix another cup of coffee and then take a deep breath and wait. And you don’t drink!
"This, too, will pass" is like a scratched record in your brain, and you wonder: When? And you don’t drink.
You drive and turn the radio up loud to drown out the thoughts, then stop to look over the city from the hill. You cry, and you hurt. And you don’t drink.
Each day after each sleepless night, you ask, "Is this the day, God? Is this the day when it will be over?" And each day it isn’t. And you don’t drink.
You stay in when it rains. You stay in when the sun shines. You don’t notice the difference. Food doesn’t go down. You go to meetings. And you don’t drink.
You cover up, and you smile while you ache. You call a friend, and it doesn’t help. You feel as if you will explode if you don’t unload on someone, and then you finally do. It brings a little relief. And you don’t drink.
You say the Serenity Prayer ten times with closed eyes and clenched fists and smoke some more. You beat the pillow with your fists, look at the clock, and know that you gave made it through one more day, one minute at a time. You hurt some more. And you don’t drink.
Then the day comes. You open the door, and the sun is shining and warm. You see the trees. And you say, "Is this the day, God?" And it is.