The small chalkboard on the icebox sported seven checkmarks, so the stallion stared at them for a while.
Seven. It's been seven days. (It feels so much longer.)
The chalkboard told him seven days, and he didn't quite believe it. The chalkboard also told him "I LOVE YOU! WE CAN DO THIS!"
He wasn't sure he believed that either.
After a moment, the icebox opened. The frosty bottle of vodka, its turn to be stared at, glistened menacingly.
I keep it there so I don't buy anymore. If I buy it, I drink it. If it's just here, it will just be here. It's a decoration.
You don't drink decorations.
It's poison anyway. We know it's poison. I might as well drink what's under the sink.
Maybe I'll... no. You know better. Not today.
The icebox closed, left to its own devices. Hooves carefully padded across the floor of the third floor apartment
I can't fly anymore, why do I live on the third floor
before padding back. The pantry was opened next, a sextet of cookies the chosen victims.
I have to eat to take the pills. If I don't take them there's no point to any of this.
A board game was selected, to help pass the time. Ridiculously complicated, it would take several minutes to complete a single turn of combat later in the game. A few hours drifted by this way, the stallion lost in the mindless monotony of trying to raise a small and fictional nation to withstand the might of the Changeling Empire. This gambit failed, as it had a hundred times before, but the stallion didn't mind. Who plays a game that they know they'll win, anyway?
Maybe that's what I'm doing now.
...maybe I'll win this time.
Sweet Celestia, I could use a drink.
Shopping needed to be done. A selection of canvas bags, sturdy and true, was picked out and crammed into saddlebags, and the stallion bravely set course away from home and towards the local market.
"Barnyard Bargains" my ass. Same as everybody else. Charging "what the market will bear." I pay the maximum the landlord thinks I can pay, I pay the maximum for wake up juice, for fruit, for vegetables, for spices, for beans, for...
It was a negative train of thought- most were, and the stallion knew it- but it kept his mind occupied long enough to get to his destination. He got the cart and ignored his fellow shoppers with the will and placidity that only somepony who truly wants to avoid everypony else can muster, and swiftly selected his prizes from the brimming shelves.
Wake up juice. Cream. Coffee... what does she like again? Vanilla? Beans. Potatoes. Mango. Beer...
He found himself in a realm of bottles, each full of promises and lies. He knew where her preferred wine was; his favorite beer stood stoic in the corner of his eye.
There you dance, little bottles. I know what you're doing. Buck you. I came this way to tell you no.
Premade salads, chocolate, green onion...
The list repeated itself as he scratched the items off of his list, one by one. The list repeated itself as he stood in line, bagged, and paid. Carefully rolled cigarettes beckoned from behind the counter.
Those will help, won't they? Smoke when you want to drink. You enjoy it.
...No. I'm not doing that. I'm not trading one for the other. They're the same thing. You know that.
You know what you're doing. Don't think about what you're doing or you'll think about what you're trying not to think about it. Look at that, a pleasant Hearth's Warming sweater. Don't stare. Compliment. Engage in small talk. Get home.
With his compliment well received
She's paid to smile when strangers do. We all just do what we have to to stay alive.
and temptation resisted, he meandered back home, in no particular rush to get back to trying not to think about
what I'm trying not to think about
what he was trying not to think about.
Stop thinking about it!
I'm all over the map today
Groceries were shelved, tucked into spots kept secret until future annoyed searches could take place. The icebox made its usual complaints about lack of space. The bottle glistened menacingly.
Why in Celestia's name am I personifying everything today?
Did I take my pills?
For buck's sake, I didn't take my pills.
The stallion rectified his medicinal mishap and selected a thin book from the shelf; a comfortable one he knew quite well.
Don't think
He nodded along as an intrepid group of noponies battled terrific creatures and investigated moldy castles, quietly humming strains of a favorite tune from the gramophone that played along in the background.
...when did I put that on?
That's good, Dawn. That means you didn't think. Don't think.
I need a shower.
I don't remember the last time I showered.
...I don't stink.
I'll do it tonight.
He checked the clock; the merciless device revealed it to be early afternoon.
Maybe I'll take a shower.
He thought about the group he had attended the morning before.
The doctor asked us about our goals. "Is your goal abstinence or moderation?" he asked us. So many said moderation. Moderation with alcohol. Moderation with drugs.
Isn't that pathetic though? "Moderation" is just the disease talking, wanting you to ingest the poisons when you know you're not supposed to. Keeping it going because you can't bucking quit.
"It's not always healthy to go cold turkey. It can be fatal for some."
"Even if you don't have physical issues you'll need to find other ways to cope."
"Withdrawal can last for months as your body adjusts to not having your substance of choice."
It's like the bastard doesn't want me to quit. "Moderation." That's for the weak. I've tried it and I was always too weak to not fall back into the habit. That doesn't make sense and you know it. Don't think about that. You have to be strong. You're never strong, you've NEVER been strong, but this time you're going to be strong.
Remind yourself, Dawn. Twenty years. It's been twenty years and it became a problem after the deployment.
I drink to remember. I drink to forget. I drink to feel and I drink to stop feeling. I drink to enjoy myself and I drink to mourn.
They didn't die for you. They died for everypony. You are part of everypony.
It's okay that you made it back. It's okay that you couldn't save all of them. You saved some of them.
There are families that thank you every day for their loved one returning.
There are families that hate the faceless medic who couldn't save them.
Don't hate yourself. Don't hate yourself. Don't hate yourself. Don't hate yourself.
Cry. You remember how to cry, don't you? You want to. It's healthy and you don't need to tear yourself down drunk to feel.
You don't need to let the others take over. (Don't you want the meds to not work?) The meds need to work. They won't work if you drink.
The stallion came out of his distraction as his partner made her way in from a hard day's work.
You can't even work anymore.
I can't even feel good anymore. She's hugging me and I love her and that always brought me comfort and all I can feel is how angry I am. I can't feel anything but anger since I quit drinking.
She knows. She understands. She's patient.
She told him that she forgot to put the eighth checkmark on the board that morning, and he nodded along, not quite believing her.
"We should play cards with the guys after dinner," she suggested. The stallion reluctantly agreed.
They know what I'm going through. They can't understand it. But they know. They understand. They're patient.
Cooking served to keep him distracted, as small talk he would not remember later crossed back and forth over the bar. At least the stove played nice; he only used it when his partner was around, and so it felt like the only object in the home he didn't have silent conversations with.
The game kept him distracted for hours after dinner. He only snapped at his friends a few times on particularly underhanded plays.
This is nice. I'm in a good mood. I'm not angry. I might be angry again later, but one day at a time.
One day I won't feel angry anymore.
I haven't thought in hours.
Don't think about it.
The board will have eight.. no.. nine checkmarks tomorrow. Don't erase them.
Maybe it will be okay.
Author's Note
Yeah, I know I don't know how to write. Wanted to share my day. It's been eight days since I last drank and that's the longest I've been without in 16 years.
I've thought the "support network" thing was kind of bullshit... basically my entire life. I've dealt with everything on my own. Depression, survivor's guilt, the voices.. I take my meds, but I've never really opened up about anything. I don't want to talk about the war, and it's some mix of never wanting anybody to experience what I did, even vicariously, and wanting to keep it to myself. To not let go of it.
I realized yesterday that the support network I've got in my partner and friends actually is helping with my sobriety. It's weird, but I'm not going to think about it.
One day at a time.
12/22/20: Twelve days. It's getting a little easier.
