an anniversary forgotten

Doing sit-ups early this morning in the spare room, I happened to glance at the Bob Marley wall calendar. It was still on July. I stood and flipped the pages to September. And then it struck me. I'd forgotten -- again. The eighth anniversary of my last drink had come and gone three weeks earlier. It was the second time I'd overlooked the ocassion. I'd missed year six, too.

When I think about my drinking days, I vacillate between feeling I've truly liberated myself from a once-messy and nasty problem (and that maybe I could even have a beer or two, after mowing perhaps) and feeling like a hard-hearted prick still blocking out the sound of the wounded and bitter hearts strung to my back bumper. I'm not sure I'll ever reconcile these feelings. Perhaps part of me never wants to; the warring sides somehow keeping me human.

A couple years ago I delivered an essay at the KGB Bar in New York prompted, in part, by the first time I forgot my last drink. As penance, I re-read the piece this morning. Here's a link for the curious (you'll be directed to my essays page; it's the third piece down, called Afterlife).

Cheers.