I’ve been, unwittingly, clinging to a small bottle of ouzo for five years. I got it as a thank you gift from friends and put it in a safe location. Then forgot about it, rediscovering it a couple weeks ago.
One night last week I just clung to the bottle. I didn’t drink it, heck, I didn’t even open it, I just sat on the edge of my bed rolling the bottle between my hands for hours while I flirted with a panic attack.
I did what They tell me to and contacted my sponsor. I contacted some others I trust. And I ended up putting the bottle down still without opening it.
This is a good thing.
Less good is I put it on my nightstand. A place I could just look at it, and it could look at me.
I was, honestly, a little (lot) scared to touch it. I felt myself spiraling. Again. But this morning I did touch it. This morning I packed it up in a bag and brought it to a friend who promised to destroy it for me.
This morning I feel like the world’s strongest woman. And exhausted. Doing the next right thing is exhausting.