It starts with one

It starts with one drink.

One, simple, weak, controlled drink. A seltzer, not even a real drink.

I was grieving, I was sad. I deserve this.

Then, it was two. Because one drink never stays one drink.

Two seltzers. They don’t count. It’s not even a mixed drink. It’s not a cocktail. It doesn’t count.

But it’s a slippery slope we head down.

I made it 10 days. 10 days postpartum. And here we are.

Here we fucking are.

All is not lost yet, I know I can get back on track. I know I can get this right again.

But do I want to?

Am I strong enough?

Can I get through this battle alone?

Because I sure do fucking feel alone right now.

I feel like I have no one in my corner, no one has my back. This is so hard to get through on my own.

I don’t feel strong. I feel like a failure. Broken, fucked up, and alone.

It starts with one, but that’s never where it ends.

Grief is an excuse. A good one, a valid one, a real one…but an excuse nonetheless.

I didn’t need to drink.

But in my head, I did.

I made it 39 weeks with him on the inside, and 10 days with him on the outside.

It doesn’t take much to fall back into old patterns.

Scary, old patterns.

Patterns that start with just one drink.

But quickly move to two.

And then 10.