by HL Borden

Created on: August 19, 2008   Last Updated: August 20, 2009

I am going to rehab.

I am both excited and scared about this. Excited because hopefully, when I return, I will no longer have this horrible constant craving. Scared because I just can't imagine my life without it.

I leave tomorrow morning, bright and early. Tomorrow is also my birthday ... soon-to-be in more ways than one. I already have plans to pick up my very last six-pack on the way home from the hospital today. I *had* been hoping for a later flight so that I could revel in my other bad "habits" one last time as well, but alas ....

I am the biggest loser who ever lived. At least I am secure enough to admit it. Last night I went out and bought myself a big ol' box o' wine. I am soooooo ghetto fabulous. So I'm, like, "I don't have enough money to go to Chipotle with you, Rob." Ah, but I sure can scrounge up $10 for some boxed wine. Pathetic little girl, that's me.

I truly believed that it would be possible for me to somehow "convert" myself into a social drinker. You see, most of my drinking is done behind closed doors. I figured that perhaps if I only did it when I was out and about, all problems would be solved.

But a crazy thing happens in the mind of someone with an addictive personality. We start rationalizing everything. "Well, if I could do one drink, then two must be okay." Or, "I drank last night so I might as well drink tonight, too." Ah, those slippery slopes. And I'm a'slidin'.

I just wish I could be a normal person. Bowling without beer? WTF? Italian food without wine? Is that even legal? Staying home and watching a movie without a 40? Can that possibly be done?

All I know is that when someone says they're going out for some drinks, I get insanely jealous. All I know is that when I see people having a beer and watching a game on tv, I wish I could do the same. All I know is that when I think of the future, a life where I never again sit in a dark pub with a nice, frosty pint depresses me beyond belief.

But it had to be done. After one gets ridiculously drunk, causes a scene in a club, goes home and can't figure out how to open the pill bottle, decides to stab a hole into it with a knife from the butcher block, misses and deeply punctures their hand, doesn't even stop when the blood begins to flow freely but keeps on stabbing because they're oh-so-desperate for that next high ... well, obviously there's a serious problem that needs to be addressed ASAP.

I am going to rehab.

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