Until now I’ve had a truthfully “easy” time of it as far as craving alcohol. (Did I really just say that out loud?) I don’t long for glasses of wine, or if I do it passes and I move along relatively unscathed. Just another passing thought.

Until last night. When I was driving home from work and it hit me like a TON OF BRICKS.

I wanted a drink, a bottles of wine. I could see myself settling in on the porch: wine in hand, I should get cigarettes too. I would drink the first bottle so fast and smooth, light cigarettes one after another until I was soothed and stinky and drunk.

Holy SHIT.

And even more holy shit because then I started reasoning it out with myself in my head.

“I’ve made it six months. No one would fault you. It would be fine. I’m off tomorrow, and Monday. Plenty of time to recover from a hangover. I can stop at the store, that one right there, where I used to get beer and cigarettes. I MISS that store. It looks so safe, so right. I should stop.”

But I didn’t stop. I came home. My four year old came down and asked for cereal, not tired. (It’s 9:30 PM by the way) So he had cereal. I had water and snacked on blueberries, and coconut, and cashews. Flipped through the mail and found a letter detailing a women in recovery series I’ve been waiting for.

Rock on universe.

It got me worried about our camping trip later this month: our annual beginning of summer trip that tends to be a bit of a booze fest. A bit- heh heh. How am I going to do this trip and NOT DRINK?

Is it too soon? I’m never around people drinking. And I want everyone to whoop it up if they want to. So I might just be in bed at nine with the children. That would be OK. I’d better start pep talking now. Luckily the first day of the recovery series is the day we get back from our trip.

Luckily I can do hard things.