It seems as if my patience has been erratically shifting from one extreme to the other. In many instances, I feel a subtle internal pause, as I prepare for the plethoric rage that is sure to boil into being. But it doesn’t. And I’m surprised each and every time. In other instances, I am in a great mood and then I’m unexpectedly triggered by gravity (i.e., something falls off the counter or a shelf and I’m literally drawing my fist back to punch something). It is an odd dichotomy of each end of the spectrum.
Urges have been minimal and manageable. I was helping Mark with dishes tonight after dinner at his house and I looked over and saw a bottle of vodka. I was fairly thirsty for a few moments, but it passed. I just now realized, as I write this, that I did not look at the bottle again. Maybe that is something. Maybe I just forgot about it. Which also may be something.
