Momentary Relapse

As I drove across the state line from Oregon into Washington, I felt good. I'd hit a meeting that night, call some guys back in the unit and clean my apartment. And write. I wanted to do some more writing and try and kick the television habit.

By the time I stopped for gas in Longview, about halfway home, I figured a few beers couldn't hurt. I mean, with all that sober time clearing the head and getting the body back to respectable health levels, how could it hurt? Sure, it would be considered a "relapse," but all that talk about relapse being the beginning of the end was just rehab guilt. F*ck it. I'll work my program.

As I was enjoying a Whopper just south of Olympia, it seemed completely reasonable that I could go on a three to five day binge and be none the worse for wear. I was planning on going into outpatient treatment the following week, so why not enter on a roll? I really wanted to get shit-faced anyway, blow off a little steam, and this week long window before outpatient seemed the perfect time to have one last hurrah.

The closer I got to home, the faster I drove. I was averaging 70 mph in southern Washington and by the end of the drive, at least 80. I could feel the edges of the beer cap in my hand as I twisted it off with a pop. I could taste the first cold sip after the icy steam oozed out of the bottle. I stepped on the gas, hard. I screeched into the convenience store parking lot, grabbed a 12-pack and a bag of chips and bolted to the counter. I paid with a debit card and the machine was going so, so slow.