I stopped smoking weed. That's old news. Like, a year and a half ago. Actually, yes. A year and a half ago. I still have some -- I keep it in the basement. Sometimes I'll go smell it. I am unable to use it. Physically unable. My body no longer accepts it.

I stopped smoking cigarettes. Sometimes I really hate it. I chew on a lot of straws. I want to say I've quit but I can't allow myself if only because this year has a pattern of three months off -- two months on -- and now I'm what, two months off? Except for the one I had the night of the drunk girl. I know that I've quit but I can't say it until I prove it.

I stopped drinking, too. I wasn't drinking a lot, I rarely ever drink. But I saw the young alcoholic upstairs get blackout drunk, something I haven't seen in years. It fucked with me on several levels. I don't drink a lot anymore, but sometimes I go through periods. I'll drink on a Thursday. I'll drink the next Thursday. Now I drink on Thursdays. Now I drink a whole bottle of wine on Thursdays. It becomes a matter of routine. While each event is possibly of no consequence, when I examine that behavior, I conclude that it's bullshit and unhealthy. So, now I am kind of a non-drinker. Not a hard and fast rule.

Mostly I sleep well, but without my trusty guards, the rise and fall of depression seems obvious. So-- some nights, here I am. Trying to reset. Wearing myself out to climb out of this ditch? That doesn't make much sense, does it.

I started writing this to complain about my lack of vices. To whine a little bit about how not having anything to hide behind makes me vulnerable and exposed to every whim of my unhinged psyche.

But the joy of writing (I must remind myself--sigh) is honesty and facing oneself. The other night at the backyard bonfire, I was sober. Me and the young alcoholic (who started going to AA again after that same night). It was totally my choice; Kevin and I went out to buy beer. I just kept drinking water. More and more water. And I kept hooping. And laughing. I got Kevin drunk instead. I was in some kind of rare form, without a bit of anything. And I loved it.

Plus the conversation I had with Michele that solidified my non-drinking behavior . My past-self never would have considered herself a non-sober person, although if we were to catalogue my behavior on any given day, I was very much not. For a long time. So it feels strange to call myself "sober." That feels like something that alcoholics do. Terrible fiendish drug addicts.

But it took me a string of horrifying panic attacks before I actually quit smoking weed, didn't it? My body had to actually revolt because the rest of me didn't want to let go, even though it was damaging my life and relationships. So what is that?

Anyway, that conversation regarding the strange allure of sobriety led me to commit myself to it.

This turned out longer than I expected. Isn't that what always happens here? Goddamn it diaryland. I just can't quit you. I have some things to work out, I guess. I have this ditch to crawl out of..

I'm still breathing.