In a Child’s Room

It was December 5, 2006, the day before my last drink. Drunk once more with the same amount of resolve as the day before, I sat burdened with remorse at the desk in my home office. I was 50 years old, going on 18. This would be the year that my alcoholism had finally introduced me to myself: a selfish good-for-nothing drunk who couldn’t stop drinking. Life was passing me by, I thought. I had become a coward who was too scared to live and too scared to die.