I swore to all that is good and holy that I was SO quitting (for the week, for 30 days, forever). Then again, sometimes I made myself a solemn vow to stop after two drinks. Three max. I’ll pour my own, thanks.

I was convinced I’d never be able to stop. I stopped drinking more times a year than it rains in Seattle.

That’s it, I thought. I’m doomed. Why would I keep trying something I OBVIOUSLY completely failed at?

Well I’ll tell you what. I ALWAYS had a loophole. An exception to the plan. A damn good reason to drink today, don’t worry about it. And, like, I didn’t announce it to people, stop lying, ask for help, go to meetings or anything that was such a big commitment. I had the books. I browsed the social media. I figured that was enough.

I liked the idea of abstinence but I didn’t want to commit all the way. Really I liked the idea of moderation and moderation is not in my wheelhouse. So I toyed with getting sober but only kind of; I thought of it as a last resort. And then kept telling myself I wasn’t anywhere near that stage in my drinking. I knew damn well I was chasing toward disaster like it was my destiny. And I didn’t want to give up my drug. I didn’t want to, in my heart. My soul was crying for help and my fear drowned those worries with another glass, or four.

Giving up alcohol wasn’t a punishment at all. It was a gift. I kept holding on to a burden. A soul sucker. When I remember the control I let booze have over me, I’m so glad I decided to not pick up a drink, today, no matter what.

And then I don’t have to keep going through the miserable cycle of half-ass quitting. It’s so much easier to just stay stopped.