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  • Writer's pictureMike and Glenn

Crave the mornings

I cursed the mornings. The annoying scream of the birds. The brightness interrupted the warmth of my internal darkness. The regret of the last 24 hours and the dread of the 24 to come.

How did I arrive at this moment? Did I not see it coming?

For years alcohol and I had a good relationship. We saw eye to eye. It worked for me, and I would bow to it. Sure, at points, it got the better of me. But before I knew it took the best of me.

9 of 10, or maybe 99 out of 100, are not afflicted negatively like I am by the will and power of alcohol.

I agree with a good friend who says,” I love what alcohol does for me, but I hate what it does to me.”

It has been a few years since I woke up with my head in my hands. But the memories are still fresh, and the emotion nears the surface.

I didn't start in the deep end of the pool, where I ultimately found myself drowning. Instead, I started in the shallow end, sipping, not guzzling. I started with a sexy wine glass and ended up with the brown paper bag. Did I slowly submerge, or was there a drop-off? It doesn't matter. This was the reality that I woke up to every morning for decades.

I knew a world existed around me but cussed its presence. I was there but not present.

October 13, 2018 - Groundhog Day.

Something was different. Something was missing. I was missing.

It was my birthday when I awoke and stumbled, like every other morning, across the hall to grab a slug from the bottle and down a couple of pills—a quick trip to the bathroom to extract the gold and then back across the hall to reload.

How I cursed the morning.

I rolled into the kitchen that morning, slouched into a table chair, propped my sunken head into my cold hands, and uttered the words “I need help” - I had come to the end of myself.

In another post, I will describe the help that came my way. But I can tell you that it came swiftly, and it was efficient.

In those early days that followed, I came to bear the break of a new day. There was less fog and no drama. Instead, I began to notice the world and its little nuances. I began to reconstruct my life one morning at a time I began to sense each breath into my lungs. I was finding something. I was finding myself.

Today, I crave the mornings. I can't seem to start my day early enough. I can't wait for the world to unfold in front of me as I learn and grow with childlike anticipation and an understanding that I am living a second chance. I am in awe of the birds’ melodic sound and appreciate the rays that warm this bright heart. I am living the rewards of the last 24 hours and anticipating the growth of the 24 to come.

I owe my new existence to the gift of surrender. In addition, I have a debt to God, AA, and those that helped secure my recovery.

To you all, I say Good Morning.


Photo by OC Gonzalez on Unsplash


Alcoholics Anonymous and AA are registered trademarks of Alcoholics World Service. Inc. References to AA, the 12 steps, and 12 traditions does not mean that AA has reviewed or approved the contents of this publication nor that AA agrees with the views expressed herein. This publication is intended to support personal growth and should not be considered a substitute for healthcare professionals' advice. The author’s advice and viewpoints are their own.

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04. Juni 2023

I love this blog entry. It perfectly describes my descent into the darkness of drinking and my love now for mornings. The pool analogy is perfect. It doesn't matter how we got to the deep end, just that we realize we are drowning. Well done!

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