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Help… love

Fear. That’s who I’ll begin with. He’s a real person. Or She. Let’s say it’s ambiguous. It’s Fear. It got me when I was a child. Funny I never liked the taste of alcohol. Even to impress my first love. He offered me a beer when I was 16. I took two sips and pretended I was drunk. Pretending. Always. Fast Forward through college.

For some reason I didn’t take to it then. I got drunk of course, like anyone in their Spring Break, college years would. But it was few and far between. I didn’t realize I had social anxiety until I started my Advertising job. Happy Hour. Once a week. Then I would have a bad day at work, I just couldn’t fall asleep, then Fear slapped Alcohol five, and turned me over.

“I’ll take her for awhile,” Alcohol said. Then It turned to me and said “I’ll be your friend, I’ll be around.”

I enjoyed it for awhile. In between missed phone calls and missed work, I asked,

“What about my family? Friends? What about those that love me?”

Alcohol answered, “They don’t understand.”

That’s all It needed to say…..

10 years later, I finally admitted I have a problem. That I need help. I’m getting it, luckily that those who loved me have recognized it. Alcohol still doesn’t want me to get help. It tries to lure me in every bar, every store, tempts me to take a bite in every corner of the Big Apple. Consequences. That’s what prevents me.

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