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    I am still sober and gaining a bit more traction every day. The past couple of weeks have felt truly like progress – I held my ground and survived some absurdly challenging drinking “tests” with my sobriety date in tact, learned a bit about setting boundaries, and matured my outlook on non drinking life. I am finally feeling fully invested in this cause, and it’s made all of the difference in the world.

    A few years back, when things started to slide off the tracks in a major way, I essentially abandoned my life. What I hadn’t lost thru tragic circumstance or the drink already, I knew I would eventually, and so I simply ran from it all to expedite the process and soften the eventual blow. I ran out of my marriage, moved thousands of miles to a town where I knew no one, cut ties with old friends and business contacts, abandoned my hobbies and sold off every belonging I felt an attachment to. I created a hollow existence comprised solely of work, drinking, and solitude, and patiently waited around to die. For years now I’ve lived in a huge, empty house that I never got around to furnishing with anything but liquor bottles. Less to trip over that way.

    Over the last few days, I’ve noticed this very odd, very foreign feeling creeping up through the fog in the quieter moments – a feeling I can only describe as a fragile hope. It’s something I’ve not felt for years, and it’s both sweetly wonderful and downright terrifying – wonderful as it signals that I’m not completely gone yet, and terrifying as it signals that I’m not completely gone yet. As I see it, there are two paths to choose from here – forward onto life or backwards to resume dying. I’ve been dawdling for too long at the crossroads, and daunting as it is to commit to being an active participant in my life and future, I’m going to give this rebuilding a life thing a shot. Maybe even buy a couch.

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