I have now alienated the entirety of my close friends, past and present, in the forty short days since I quit being a fucking drunk.
I knew there would be changes. Baseline changes, in the way I related to my depressingly unhappy life, the life I needed to deal with seeing sober, and not from the rosy view of the bottom of a bottle of Two-Buck Chuck. No warming insulation, no softening cushion like strips of bubble wrap, or pale green packing peanuts, crumbling on the inside of a much-too-tightly wrapped package as it careens, out of control, down the UPS conveyor belt of life. Broken contents, and useless measures taken to secure them.
Honesty and anger, brevity and elaboration, and an unvarnished way of being real… of being me. And the alienation of so many, who with their words say that they approve of what I’ve done, but with their absence say that they don’t. And I don’t blame them. Because I don’t know if I like the real me better than the old… yet. But I’m gonna. Because this voice, this soul, this living, unprotected me on the inside of the crushed cardboard box of my existence accepts the leaky, possibly toxic truth that will, from time to time and from now on, keep spilling out.
And I love you, fucking all.
© 2014 Bill Friday