For at least 10 years, I have treated Swenny’s alcoholism as a rescue effort. Always searching for signs of life that I could pull to safety. With relapse after relapse, though, coming lately as staccatos separating shorter and shorter periods of sobriety, I have shifted my mission from rescue to recovery.
And not the type of recovery that leads to a future. The kind that acknowledges the end. The kind that accepts defeat to minimize any further risk.
Another week of drinking, denial and tears has taken from me whatever fight I had left in our quest for sobriety. Instead, I find myself pulled from the anguish of alcoholism, limp and lifeless, having surrendered to its force.
Where optimism was once my strongest recourse, it’s now gone. Missing. Engulfed in a wave that has left me with one last gasp. A gasp I choose to spend uttering the words, “I give up.”