I think I know why

I was looking at this wall. There was nothing to see really. A blank wall; white, except I had this tiny and small feeling. Sort of anxious feeling growing like I must be doing this, but now I’ve got to go pee, but maybe not right now. I procrastinate the pests in life, the rising anxiety, and stare closer at the wall.

It’s not always perfect as you know. That wall under my stare began to reveal texture and blemish. Reason offered that there was something better on its other side. Maybe it was smoother. Maybe I was making that up, but on my side I had this unpleasantness. My thoughts began to push down my building anxieties and go toward the good, go beyond the barrier. And I let want, desire, work in my mind. I let how to figure in. I reached for that easy promise, that shining key.

I know the reason I drink. I deny it, naturally. This time I will tell you. I drink for passage. I drink for transport. On the other side of the wall, there is the place that is not here. I could be there and quickly.

I find clarity. I see the meanings. There, I indulge in glorious motivation. So much to do and how. Possibilities. Bliss.

Then I am awake, I am looking at this wall...and I hurt very badly. Intense pain. Anxiety that is panic. I tally up the costs, the despair.

[I watched the 2021 film The Good House. Sigorney Weaver was actually 71 years old when playing the part of Hildy Good; it was believable. I wish I was only playing a part. I watched the film sober. It provided me an experience on the good side of my wall. After the movie ended, I had none of the usual hurt and despair.]