a dry Chardonnay
pick your poison
on any given day.
Started off as a dinner treat,
then slid it’s way to just past noon;
a fancy goblet to a tumbler
all too quick and rather soon.
Delicate fancy bottles from all over the world
turned into boxes with a spout,
a down whirl spiral without a doubt.
Now, it’s 6 am, I stumble to pour another…
Stop the anxiety and trembling from setting in.
Tears are streaming down my face,
I’m full of disgust and disgrace.
In the dining room, I am seated
looking down the hall at my bed,
gulp another tumbler of poison
feeling nothing but depleted.
Barely making it to the bed,
I trip and nearly hit my head.
I crawl under the covers pleading,
wishing, and praying to be dead.
August 14, 2015, is my sober date. I don’t miss the days of neverending fear, embarrassment, disgust, and rage I had. It nearly took my life because that’s what I had wanted when I did drink. I also had no idea at the time that I suffered from mental illness, so self-medicating is all I was doing to numb the pain of depression, anxiety, grief, and then suicidal ideation.
I don’t miss those days at all.
[Picture courtesy of Google Images]