Baby Steps, Death Therapy, and Little Victories-
Sitting here, bumblefucking around on the interweb, drinking a Dr Pepper 10 and getting ready to go drop my fatass in the pool I'm --- well, I don't want to disgust you too greatly with the visual image and TMI, but, I'm playing with the fatness. Trying to gauge it, so to speak. And I can pinch enough on the sides, and press in enough, I can actually feel something that's not fat. So, my current state- I seem to be losing enough weight for the fat to be soft and squishy, but the bowling ball of gut in the sack of skin droops lower- so that I somehow need fatter clothes than I did before (part of that might be water weight fluctuation; I didn't think about it at the time but the family ring was a little tighter than usual Saturday), but- for the first time, in a very long time, I can feel something beneath the whiskey flab.
There are times, when I sit, and marvel at the ridiculousness of it. What I've done to myself. I tried my best not to make it to 30, and in less than 2 months I'll be 36. At the time it seemed like I didn't have a choice. That it was the way it was, and that was that. One of the things the tough love advocates never seem to understand, is the resoluteness of despair. To feel like a circus grotesque, locked away in your cave, drinking 100 proof like breathing air, lost inside the worlds in your head to escape the one outside it. And here I am. Every new day is strange and wonderful, and I yearn for booze less and less. I don't deny myself it. It simply has no control over me. And that's the best gift I think I've ever given myself.
