The 32nd Year

In July, I turned 32.

I've never really found birthdays to be the happiest of occasions in my life, but I felt even more morose on this particular one as I laid in bed that morning and thought about what my life even was about anymore. It occurred to me, glaringly, that at this ripe age when most people would have careers, families, and lives to show for their 3 decades on this god-forsaken rock, that I have nothing but a string of relapses and failures, punctured only briefly by moments of happiness and success over the last decade that are always fleeting.

That morning, I tossed around the (perhaps) useless, stupid, and far-too-philosophical thought that I might've been happy had I not thrown away opportunities, relationships and many, many years on drinking and using over the larger part of the last two decades. Don't we talk so much these days about keeping up with the Jones'? Of course everyone has their own road, but, I must say, the euphemism is so much more apt when you've constructed and demolished your own life 10x over like only an addict/alcoholic can.

32. I made a pact to change my life. I said I'd stop, get out from under waiting tables, learn how to love myself, and see London by the time I turned 35 like I had always dreamed. I wish it were easy enough to just say it to myself.

If anyone has ever been around "the fellowship" or "the rooms" or read the literature, you know that even Bill W. couldn't stay on the wagon just on solemn oaths and promises.