Step One: Unmanageability (Twelve Steps)


‘And my life has become unmanageable…’ This is clearly an understatement for the life that I have led since birth. I’ve been a loner, a pessimist, an antagonist, a miserable wretch. I’ve been a liar, a cheater, a wallower in my own self-made dispair. I’ve been a walking, talking, babbling brook of disaster.

Wow, that was enlightening. Please do allow me to elaborate on the merry-go-round that won’t stop spinning in my head. Maybe then I will find the nerve to jump, duck and roll.

Mama was a suicide watch and daddy was a rolling stone. And I was a dreamer left to dream my dreams alone. I had so many visions of what the world should be, visions that I still hold onto until this very day. And as I stared off into nothingness, thinking up a master plan, the incoherent ramblings of everyone around me became an all-consuming fire inside my soul.

I have known my whole life that this system is doomed to destruction. And I also knew the way out since I was a child, without anybody every teaching me anything that was worthy of mentioning. As I dragged-ass into adulthood I thought maybe I would find someone on this planet who has a brain and actually uses it to think for his or herself, but all I found were blind sheep following their masters to slaughter, fighting me at every turn over what I view as common sense.

My heart pulses with anger every time I think about it. I pace round and round in circles, biting my nails, fuming with anger and resentment. As the noise in my brain devours whatever plans I made to better myself, I resort to alcohol to make it stop. Then I come back to my senses, make more plans to better myself until the noise starts all over again.

It starts as a faint cry echoing from the depths of my mind. Not just one cry, but many. I try to ignore them, but they taunt me more relentlessly as the day drags on. At first, it’s just a whisper that I can’t make much sense of. Then the whispers turn to conversations, and the conversations to arguments, and the arguments to fights, and the fights into hurricane Maria.

As the storm settles and the clouds begin to part, I am continuously left to clean up the mess left behind. I get up, brush myself off, rebuild my rickety old shack, and destroy it all over again.

My inward unmanageability is the wellspring of my outward dysfunction. Life is too much for me a handle. Ordinary responsibilities other people take on are too much of a burden for me to bear. And I have a million reasons why it’s more difficult for me than everyone else. The main reason being that I don’t want to live so everything that happens is too much of a hassle.

I catastrophize everything because everything is a catastrophe. I know I should look on the bright side, keep the faith, blah blah blah. But the fact still remains, everything is a catastrophe. The whole world is on the pathway to destruction. The system in itself is a collision course. I believe those who know the Truth should remain confident and grounded in the narrow path; but hey, shoulda, coulda, woulda…

I’ve been isolating on a whole other level lately. It’s gotten to the point where I haven’t had food in my refrigerator for a month because I don’t want to go out. I have no clothes, my hair needs to be done, I have a gym membership I don’t use, and I have enjoyed maybe three days of the sun I cried for everyday during the winter.

I feel like I’ve lost my will to live. I have no hope in the future. I have no hope in humanity. I’m just here passing time until that glorious day when I shall depart from this hell called ‘life.’ I’m sure drinking like a fish doesn’t help matters. But I can’t seem to pull my mind out of replay; a constant reminder of the abyss I thought I would never escape, and it appears I never will.

I’ve been taken to the psych ward more times than I can count, lost all my belongings numerous times, dug a debt hole I will probably never get out of, and been involved with extremely destructive relationships. I’ve gone off the deep end and done the most bizarre things anybody could think of doing. I’ve put myself in danger without even thinking about the possible consequences. The list of ways my life has become unmanageable is too long for me to fathom.

There comes a time in every alcoholic’s life when one must make a decision: Continue on the pathway that leads to destruction, or stop making excuses and go-hard on the ole wagon. I suppose the wagon is a cozier place than the bitch-slave cellar I have created for myself. But ‘supposing’ doesn’t get me through the doors. So I reckon I ought make the commitment to go to meetings because being a bitch-slave ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.

The eNd

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