nearly dry January 6th

the more i decide not to drink, the more its pull grows.
I managed to get through the entire evening with aching teeth (ew) irritating feelings of annoyance and general distemper.
I read my books, i read to my children, i made supper and got the daughter to bed without a single drop.
Then at the stroke of nine pm (3 hours later than usual) i cracked open a cold can of beer.
i feel slightly defeated that i can't even manage one damn day.
i logged on to blogs in general of abstainers and the more i read of how wonderful they feel, the more wretched i began to feel.
is the beer making me feel better?
not really, though i think it sort of represents closure for me of another day.
the reasons i wish to stop drinking...

• to treat the week in a business like fashion up on time and in bed on time (a routine)
• to reduce groggy hellish hungover mornings 
• to reduce earth shattering tiredness during the day
• to improve health - skin and body and inner bits i can't see
• to be more present with my children 
• to find proper purpose for living 
• to live without alcohol
• to face life without this damn drug
• to live

and yet, here i am glass of cold alluring beer diminishing beside me. 

moderation moderation moderation.

perhaps if i can utterly reduce the nights i crawl to my pillow in oblivion then i may start recovering from this blight. 

i can allow two pints of beer and then bed.

but you see, i think i am desperately miserable and the gulping down of slightly sweet yeasty beer seems to stifle the discontent and sense of self failure. 

and yet i deeply don't want to go there completely which would explain the night time issue.

i am all to well aware of the hundreds of thousands of drinkers especially mums who see the night form 6 pm stretching off into miserable awareness of nothingness. 

yes there are board games and stories to be read, books to read and films to watch, but somehow after the grime and grit of another day, sipping or swallowing an alcoholic beverage seems to be the only thing that satisfies emotional and almost physical misery.

and now as i finish that first can and reach for my second, the dreadful cruel shit heap of self pity reaches out its devilish hand to wrap its claws around my shoulders and comfort me. 

'bad mother' it suggests, then 'no of course not dear, you are struggling...' try harder' it calls. 'but no, you can't try any harder. it's too hard, isn't it my dear...' 

how can i possibly go to bed now? i think. two beers and i am still sober. i will have to be alive while i go off to the land of sleep. i can't face that.... knowing i am losing consciousness.... 

oh fuck. does it really matter. you've done it before, woken up feeling like road kill and dragging your body through the day till eventually till it feels ok again. you can do it again, and again. 

shit shit shit.