Being Better

I have not taken a drink of alcohol in 2 years, 2 weeks and 2 days, as of today.

I have not smoked a cigarette in over a year and a half.

I don’t smoke pot or take pills or even use Nyquil.

I get nervous when my allergies act up because it means I might have to take something stronger than Tylenol and that means I might slur a word. My eyes might droop – my head might nod. I  might miss something. And most certainly the scariest thought: I might like it.

I don’t know why a disease that tortures everyone around me never swallowed me whole. I don’t know why I don’t take chances with my sobriety. I don’t know why the same monster that chews on the souls of people I love never bit me as deep as it did them. I don’t know why I refrain from destroying myself. I don’t know why I have the ability to keep my shit together now. I don’t know why it’s no longer hard.

What is hard, though, is staying grateful and thankful that I don’t ache for that escape that I used to build my world around. It’s hard to love the light when people you love live in the dark. It’s hard to hang on to being free when those around you stay caged – hard to celebrate when they suffer.

I don’t know why I don’t know how to share being better, why I can’t give it away. I don’t know why
I can’t love or fight or hate or beat the beast that is this disease out of everything, everywhere, but I can’t.

I don’t know why sometimes I desperately wish I could just want to drink it or drug it away, but I can’t. I don’t even want to anymore.

Sometimes being better just pisses me off.