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At 4:00 in the morning on September 21st, 2014, I passed the mile-marker—it had been one year since I took my last drink.
As writers are prone to do, I sat in on oversized chair on the morning of the 21st, and considered the occasion. I’ve made a great deal of progress over the past year. I’ve learned to identify the anxieties that trigger my desire to drink—family illness, career stress, church cynicism. I’ve learned to confront those anxieties head-on, learned to sit in them and ask that a good and abiding God would meet me and speak quiet truth. I’ve learned to avoid numbing discomfort with liquor.
I reflected on these things, and along with a sense of accomplishment, pride began to well up. With this pride came creeping notions.
Maybe I’m strong enough to handle a drink now.
Certainly I know the tricks to stop at one glass of whiskey.
[tweetherder]If I’m not drinking to numb the pain, then what’s the harm in a drink?[/tweetherder]
I could slip across the street and buy just one forty ounce beer; no one would have to know.
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