I’m drinking again, but not like the casual glass of wine with dinner. I mean, I’m drinking again because I don’t want to face my reality.
I knew I was getting bad again. I could tell when the tears finally stopped running down my cheeks and into my lap or onto my pillow.
I could tell when sleeping all day became my escape from reality and emotions. But, I’m fine. At least, that’s what I tell people.
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