Pick. CRUNCHCRUNCHCRUNCHCRUNCH. Pick. CRUNCHCRUNCHCRUNCHCRUNCH. For 20 minutes now. On and on and on.
I don't even want a drink. I want to run screaming from the house. I want to submerge my head in the fish tank for 10 minutes or more, come what may.
But hey, I don't even want a drink. Progress!
We all have these little things we know are irrational, tiny annoyance that for whatever reason, happen to drive us to levels of distraction that are wildly out of proportion with their levels of perceived transgression. It's lunacy to be bothered by my spouse eating food. But I still need to leave the room when I feel the physical reaction that precedes rash behavior (body temperature rises sharply, muscle tense) kicks in.
Which is a lot like overcoming cravings for AL. So many seconds pass before the initial thought and the actual drink, and every single one of them is a chance to do something (ANYTHING) that will short circuit the highway to hell, the interstate to ruin that has no exits, the pattern of behavior that leads to that first all-destroying drink.
Two weeks AF, able to laugh at my own absurdity.
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