Without fear, insomnia, I can't get no sleep.

I can't sleep. I try, really I do. I lie there and think about sleep, about my cool pillow and my favorite comforter. (A favorite comforter, you say? Like I have two? Not really, I just love this one because it's old and reminds me of home.)And then I start to think. I can't help it. I think about this book I'm reading called Living Sober. They call it a pamphlet, but anything over 50 pages qualifies as a book to me.

So what's it say? Well, it's like a newcomers guide to being sober. Why is a sponsor good? Should I get rid of all the alcohol in my apartment? What's "closed meeting" mean? Oh, yawn, you say. Well, not really. Mr. Anonymous is actually pretty funny, for being a "pamphlet."

And all the alcohol in my house? It taunts me. Those four bottles of really good wine purchased in Napa Valley sit on the kitchen counter and say: Wait, you're going to waste us and give us away? But we're $30 bottles of wine! And man, that bubbly one is GOOD. Maybe just one bender. Maybe we just meet one last time in the kitchen and you can finish us. Alone? Alone. In my kitchen. Chugging.

How pathetic. It's times like these I reach over and grab that 24 hour chip. I knead it between my fingers, twisting and twirling it in my palm. 24 hours. Someone had the foresight to give me, ME, something precious like a constant reminder of what I'm doing. And why.

Why. Why? Because I'm scared. I'm scared for myself and I want something better than being a kitchen drunk. I want to live in the best way possible. I want to thrive, not just live. And I can't do it in the bottom of a bottle.

Day 8, and I have insomnia. I reach out for that chip instead of that bottle, and I know it'll pass. I'll sleep again one day, but for now, all that matters is ignoring that bottle until I can pass it on to someone who will sip it and appreciate it. Not me. Not today. One day at a time. Not today.