Day 3 - I think I'm in the wrong room...

So I find that there are AA meetings just blocks from where I work, and on my lunch hour no less. I decide to check one out.

I felt like I needed to take a shower by the time I left.

It was a handful of old, grimy dudes who looked like they live in empty Kenmore boxes under bridges, and most of them had to have slips filled out by the moderator to show their parole officers that they were actually there. They smelled funny, and none of them could hold a coherent thought. There was indeed a topic at hand, but none of them could stick to it to save their souls. All they wanted to talk about was how much they love to drink, and how much they hate their halfway houses.

I couldn't wait to get out of there! The one guy there who I thought might be in kind of the same situation as me (normal person trying to squeeze in a meeting during lunch) kinda looked like that creepy Shamwow/Slapchop guy from the infomercials, and when he opened his mouth he started sounding like the Shamwow guy on crystal meth. Lord, help me.

I used probably a half bottle of hand sanitizer when I got back to the office, and I will never set foot in that building again. Ew. Ew. EEEEEEEEEWWWWWW.

The crappier thing is, I felt so deflated. Defeated. And all I could think about the rest of the day was how much I wanted a nice, big glass of rich red wine. I could not get the thought out of my head.

I went to get my hair done last night, which usually makes me feel great. Last night it didn't, because all I could think about was how much I wanted a drink. My hair looks fabulous as usual, but all I could see was a hopeless drunk with awesome hair. No swagger, no warm, happy feeling. Just, "Wow. it looks great. I need a drink."

So I went home, and Mike and I sat and watched TV while I cried. He rubbed my feet to try to make me feel better, but it didn't help. All I could think about was that I was starting to loathe the russian tea, and would much rather have a glass of shiraz.

Then my ex called, and it was a really depressing conversation. He's miserable, and things aren't going that well for him. I wanted to be helpful, wanted to be sympathetic, but I just couldn't muster much up because I am so miserable myself. I felt so horrible. Here he's coming to me for support, and all I can think about is that my liver is failing, I'm malnourished and anemic, my hands are shaking, I'm nauseated, I'm depressed, and I need a drink. I really, really need a drink. I probably have MS, and I want a drink. I'm sorry you're hurting. I need a drink.

You get the picture.