Fear and Loathing in North London

37 days clean and I lapsed.

It was too easy, I gave in too easily.

“You really just want a diet coke?”
“Yep, I’m not drinking.”
“What about if I stick a cheeky vodka in that diet coke?”
“No, I really shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“…I should’ve gone home hours ago.”
“Me too, who cares? Fuck everything, fuck everyone. Single or double?”
“Well, double works out cheaper…”
“Good girl. Double vodka and diet coke it is.”
“Thanks, man. Ah, God, my first drink in 6 weeks…”
“And speaking of coke, I’m going to get us a gram.”
“Oh…. alright then, fuck it!”

Old habits die hard, and it appears that mine haven’t died at all, not even a little bit, not in the slightest. I did all the bad things that I never wanted to do again.

I thought I could bury these bad behaviours and destructive actions but I guess I didn’t dig deep enough. All the worst parts of me crawled out of their shallow mass grave, resurrected themselves and made themselves known in the most appalling fashion.

I can’t look at myself. Hollow eyes hide the most lies. I can’t even cry.

I want to take my brain out of my skull and abandon it somewhere far away, let it be savaged by wild animals: any damage they cause would only be an improvement.

The full moon is shaking her head at me, her craters are overflowing with pity. She’s disappointed in me, but nowhere near as much as I am disappointed in myself.

It is a shocking thing, to realise that I make my own skin crawl.