12:43 PM: Eight months. Eight months is no joke, to be certain; however, there are subtle whispers threatening to fuck up the works. The rationalization of urges are still absent, though the occasional romanticization is still present; however, the latter isn’t a threat. It isn’t difficult to see the nostalgia for what it is. It is the subtle self-doubt. A series of self-destructive questions: Would I still be off the sauce if I stopped taking wellbutrin? If no: do I really have any reason to celebrate my sobriety? If no: do I really have any business facilitating meetings about recovery? If no: are the recovery meetings even worth my time? And then, for the non sequitur, am I really me while taking a psychoactive medication , or is my phenomenological experience really really real? If no: should I try to cease the medication?
And there he is … as I wrote that sentence, I heard the faint voice of my deamon calling. If I stop taking the medication, could I binge drink with a non-lethal, non-going-rogue-for-multiple-days-at-a-time intensity and frequency? How nice it would be to sit on the back steps with a bottle of whiskey followed by a bottle of vodka while smoking a pack of camel non-filters.
Perhaps a written exercise of negative visualization regarding the matter would be prudent. You should write what you know. And I know well spiraling out of control and ruining my life with booze.
2:46 AM: I’m digging the more of less. More than half way through the year, but I’m starting to build elimination momentum.
Today I was grateful that a patient’s family had such nice things to say. The patient’s daughter stated that watching her dad and I work together changed her entire view of therapy. She stated that up until then, she was completely convinced that therapy was a waste of time. She felt that way based on her experiences working at a nursing home and watching the lack of results from the six therapists that worked with her father before me.
