I know with all that is happening, drinking is the last thing I should be thinking about. It hasn’t been a crutch for me in a long time. I stopped drinking years ago when I picked up a gun and tried to kill myself. That got me a stay in the Psyche ward and quality time with a shrink. It was a turning point in my life at the time, one I really needed. The scar on my head is a constant reminder how close I came to missing so many positive opportunities in my life.

“There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds.”~Laurell K. Hamilton

I started drinking socially again in 2003, a glass of wine here and there. Occasionally, a mixed drink but never a steady event.  On Wednesday nights, I looked forward to having a drink, sometimes two with my writing friends.  I was tempted more than once to hide in the bottle after my grandson died. I didn’t want to feel at all. But in my mind, I saw my hand holding that pistol again and that image was enough to keep me sober.

Since the doctor called I’ve wanted a drink more than anything. Today isn’t the first day I’ve walked over to the liquor stand we have with a selection of wine and hard liquor. I have choices…lots of choices. Today I walked outside and picked a handful of mint to muddle…and downloaded a recipe. What difference will one drink or a dozen really make in the grand scheme? What’s wrong with having a crutch occasionally? Don’t answer, I’m not in a mood for a lecture either.  I need to be numb.

“Whenever you read a cancer booklet or website or whatever, they always list depression among the side effects of cancer. But, in fact, depression is not a side effect of cancer. Depression is a side effect of dying.”― John Green. Reality check.. cancer thinks it can kill but it hasn’t won yet and it won’t this time.

The hell with it.  I’m drinking a mojito. I may even have a second one. I’m tired of rules today. What did following life’s rules really do for me, for my family. My grandson had a helmet and a chest protector on riding his dirt bike, neither piece of equipment saved his life. I want to be there for my son on the anniversary but I’m scared that I won’t be strong enough. The iron woman is strong but she gets tired, too!

I wrote a poem for you, Johnny because writing how I was feeling wasn’t happening. It’s hard to write when you’re eyes are blurred with tears.  Good thing your Grandma doesn’t bother with makeup I would scare everyone.

I made your Grandpa banana walnut cake because he’s as stressed as I am with all that is happening. It’s bad enough having this letter-c hovering, trying to pay bills with all the covid-19 crap impacting his insurance business. Insurance did involve meeting people face to face, now its a scrambling nightmare as it transitions to over the phone and online. And if that isn’t enough stress, the insurance companies are dragging their asses to pay commissions as well. Heaven forbid a CEO not have his big bank account.  Your Dad and Debbie helped us with the mortgage. I really didn’t want to ask but sometimes pride can also be your worse enemy too.

I know we need to sell this house and move into something cheaper. The hard part for me is this stone fortress is the only place I’ve truly felt safe. I never worry about the roof collapsing or the water flooding the basement or the water freezing like I always had to in the old place.