I decided to give up drinking this summer because after a not-to-be-disclosed number of months, this is a portion of what came out of my bedroom last spring.
I posted here about my optimism about my break with beer, and here about my failure. I don’t think it was an utter and complete failure, but I failed in this goal nonetheless.
I decided not to go further in my quest for sixty five days of alcohol free goodness, because the pressure it put on me was just too much. I was completely restricting any contact with alcohol, and I think it was a bit like being on a diet. I couldn’t stop thinking about it, and the fact that it was on my mind worried me all the time.
I’ve since had beer on three occasions: twice after work, I had one, and last night I went out with friends on a social galavant around the city.
At this point, I have to say that I am completely up in the air with regards to my feelings on this subject. I was so certain that after I had gone a length of time without drinking, I would be positive as to whether or not I should quit permanently.
It is a bad habit, of course, and so obviously it would be a good bad habit to give up altogether. But at the same time, it is something I enjoy, a social habit that I partake in.
I suppose that at this point, I’m monitoring my behavior: I don’t want my bedroom to have a grocery cart full of bottles in it by the time New Years’ rolls around. But at the same time, I don’t think I’m going to consider myself the biggest loser on the planet if I indulge in a wakness now and then.
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