It doesn't seem possible, but half a year has passed since Robin died, and I nearly joined her in the great beyond. The group rehab at Inova is a distant memory, and I suppose that process deserves at least some credit for my continuing sobriety. I can still honestly say (and honesty is not something that comes naturally to a drunk) that I can still walk past a liquor store -- as I must in order to refill my prescriptions at the pharmacy next door -- or the beer aisle at the supermarket without a pang of temptation. But then I remember the alcoholics in rehab who went years, a decade or more, before relapsing. Six months then doesn't seem so long at all.
No, I never did go back to AA, or Smart. As I've probably said already, the former was too much, the latter was not enough. As long as I have a neuropsych, Dr. Lebedun, whom I see at least once a week, I feel my bases are covered, so to speak. Besides, I'm not likely to forget the horror of the emergency room, not in six months, six years, or ever.
This is the biggest problem with writing a blog about yourself. Writing about, or talking about, myself has never been my favorite thing to do. Not as a little kid, not as a teenager, not as an adult. Some folks never tire of it, though they're usually the only ones listening after a while. There are exceptions, of course. But unless you've led a very exciting life are your self-involved tales likely to be worth hearing. And even then, the teller of the tale must have a talent for it. I do have a talent for writing, not talking, and not about myself, even though I have had some interesting experiences. Maybe I will share a few of them. But not tonight, as it is late.
