I’ve had drinking dreams for the last four nights, and I can’t say that I’m terribly psyched about it. I don’t wake up feeling a sense of dread or guilt. Quite the opposite—I open my eyes and think how wonderful it would be to drink during my waking life.
I know my brain is flip-flopping through post-actute withdrawal right now, and my various (natural) chemical are seeking a way to level out. My brain is getting the message that it ain’t gonna be riding shotgun with wine and vodka anymore, and it’s scramblin’ like a frog at the end of a gig stick tryin’ figure out what to do next.
(why I dipped into that odd tone, I don’t know. I blame it on post-acuate brain mess…and the fact that my son is caring for a tiny tree frog, one I don’t plan to gig.
If today goes like yesterday did, I’ll spazz out around three o’clock and try to calm my breathing as I make supper, wrangle the kids into the bath tub, and generally unnerve my wife. Last night, after babbling some random nonsense, I looked at her and said, “Hey, at least I’m sober! Woo hoo!”
Sobreity is good. Feeling like I’m about to burst out of my skin isn’t, but it will pass.
(Right? Someone tell me it will.)