sleeping poorly at the moment. either vivid, harrowing dreams, or springing into wakefulness in the early hours. last night I woke at 1.45am.

and you do the things you do at 1.45am.

you start with crying. which is currently your default activity. the silent, welling variety, at that point. you try to distract yourself by enumerating all the synonyms you can think of for crying.

sob, wail, snivel, weep. cry one’s heart out…

try and fail not to wake the person beside you, if you are lucky enough to have one. who holds you for a bit then falls back into so-enviable oblivion.

read. read something different. put the different book down. roll over. repeat.

the drinks cabinet in the room below clears its throat politely, and is ignored like a clipboard-wielding student charity collector on a busy street. no time for you now.

2.30am. you go downstairs. talk to the dog who gives a token tail-thump at the sight of you. cry a bit more. re-read pages of your blog about getting through tough times.

make some hot milk and take it back up to bed. fall asleep, around 4am.

and the morning comes. as it will. and you get up gritty-eyed and unrested to another sodding beautiful day. you are thankful that you have got through another night. and yes, this is like the first days of getting sober. the only way through is through.

I cannot imagine doing this and drinking. thank God I am sober. because I feel like death warmed up as it is – the thought of doing it with a roiling stomach and thudding head is intolerable.

it is always the first thing I write on my gratitude list.

I am sober. 97 days to go to one year.

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