relapse

by: emily alber

I stood outside on the balcony of my new bedroom. Dark silhouettes rose up around me as the stars came plunging from the sky. It made the night feel cinematic. The air was untouched, completely unclaimed. Birch trees watched from the edge of the driveway while moose lingered in the shadows. It was surreal to witness this scene. Nothing moved. Not even the leaves. 

Despite nature’s beauty, a restless ache stirred. Two and a half years of sobriety wasn’t making anything better. There was work that needed to be done and I wasn’t doing it. Discontentment and irritability were eating me alive. I was sober, but I may as well have been drinking. 

Once I knew there was booze in the fridge, my body shifted. For a moment, I felt myself go dim. Invisible strings tightened beneath my skin, pulling me into the kitchen. My feet didn’t resist; my arms already reaching. Addiction had me in its grip and without a program, I didn’t stand a chance. 

I hadn’t even taken a sip and the slide had already begun.

The refrigerator shelf was arranged with precision. A row of cans in perfect formation, their colors bright against the cold white light. I didn’t hesitate. I reached for the cherry. The taste was thin and metallic, like the sound of television static. Floods of dopamine washed into my brain. By the third can, I had crossed whatever line I’d drawn for myself. I had believed I would know when to stop, but I didn’t. 

The box was already empty.

I had drunk until the lights blurred. There was no fight in me left by the time my eyes closed. Shame was the last thing I could remember. I was powerless long before the alcohol had even touched my lips. Quietly, slowly, I dropped into the darkness. My disease had been waiting for me this entire time.