Obsession grabs me sometimes.

We found that we were totally unable to be rid of the alcohol obsession
until we first admitted that we were powerless over it. -From Twelve Steps and Twelve Traditions

Today at a step meeting we discussed step twelve. In the Twelve and Twelve they review the steps, and the first thing they said is the quote above. Rid of our OBSESSION. I am obsessed. I need that drink. I am thirsty for that next one. Once I start the thirst just multiplies and I need more, more, more. Thinking about my next drink was my obsession, whether I was on drink one or at work thinking about the party that night. Or thinking about relaxing after work - I'll just have one glass of wine. That one glass always turned into one bottle, hangover be damned.

We admitted we were powerless over this obsession. That's what the first step is all about. I've been struggling with it and mulling it over. Powerless. Completely powerless to not think about that first drink. To not crave.

I admit it. I am powerless. I can't stop myself. I can't control my own obsession with drinking and all the social shit that comes with it. I want it. I need it. I am powerless.

And that's step one.

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.

And so it begins.

My name is Anne, and I'm an alcoholic.

Wow. The first time I said that out loud it was hard to get out. I'm an alcoholic. I have a problem with alcohol. It has me firmly in it's grips.

But seriously, alcoholic? Ok, so sometimes (a lot) I drive drunk. And most times I pass out or blackout.... and I end up places I shouldn't be, like sleeping it off in a ditch or in someone's bed, but really, an alcoholic? Isn't that just the way 20-somethings act? Like idiots?

And then I turned thirty and heard a story. My cousin DKD was sitting alone in her house and decided to get shitfaced. She proceeded to drink two bottles of wine, and then decided she wanted to go pick up some dude at a bar. She put on her best skanky clothes and drove to the bar in another town. After a few more shots, she took to her car and drove home on a major highway. She hit a Jersey barrier (one of those concrete things) and ripped up her front axle. And then it gets interesting - some poor sap stopped to help her and called her son to come get her, and then left. The cops arrived and proceeded to grill her on driving drunk, but she said she picked up some man and he bailed with his friends after crashing her car. "That's my story, and I'm sticking to it." She got out of there with nothing but a wrecked car and a very angry son. No ticket, no nothing.

That could have been me. How many times have I stumbled to the bar after having one too many? Hunting for boys to take home to cure my lonliness, and always leaving alone anyway. Driving home blind drunk, having to concentrate with all my might on the road ahead. Crawling out of bed in the morning to sweat out the booze behind my desk and hope no one notices me.

I was sick. I am sick. There is something in this world which has the power to take me over and make me make the stupidest decisions. And I don't want to be that way. I don't want to end up 43 and just like DKD. I won't have it.

So I called someone. My best friend is in this program called Alcoholics Anonymous. He never preached to me; just let me know it was there and available. I've been so proud watching his journey for the past 5 years. It's heartened me to see how much he's grown - but I never thought it was for me.

I walked into my first meeting 7 days ago and helped make coffee. It was lunchtime and since there were four of us, we all went around the room and shared, and I said it. My name is Anne and I'm an alcoholic. Shit. Did that just really come out of my mouth? I can't believe it, but it's true. My behaviors have become out of control. I've lost the control in my relationship to alcohol, if I ever had it in the first place.

We have come to believe that we are powerless over alcohol and our lives have become unmanageable.

Unmanageable. I've never lost a job, been pulled over, or hit rock bottom. But I was sure headed that way. So here I am, chronicling for the interwebs my story.

My name is Anne and I'm an alcoholic.