Sometimes, thinking about my life before and after quitting drinking is like having my eyes tested. You know, when the doctor asks, �Is this better, or worse? Better, or worse?� Sometimes it�s obvious. One is blurry, one is clear. Other times they seem almost alike. As a child, I always dreaded this part of the eye exam. I worried that if I answered wrong, my prescription would be useless. I thought the key to correcting my vision lay in the tiny distinctions. At my last eye exam, though, I said several times that I couldn�t tell the difference. The doctor was unfazed. My glasses were fine.

Living alone, there�s no one to confirm the obvious. Is it cold in here? Is this better, or worse? On a long holiday weekend, I wake up Monday morning with a sneaking suspicion that I�ve misunderstood and I�m supposed to be at work. How can I be sure? I look out the window. I can�t tell from the way people are walking around. I have to turn on the TV and wait until they mention the holiday. When I was drinking, I used to sometimes wake up on Sunday convinced that I�d slept through to Monday. I�d flip through the channels frantically until I saw a preacher.

Better, or worse? How about this -- better, or worse?

One evening earlier this week I was in line at the grocery store. I was tired. I was worried about something. The cold was in my bones. The man in front of me in line had four bottles of wine in his basket. My heart just wrenched when I saw them. I imagined the cosy, wine-soaked evening he had planned. I had tears in my eyes.

Better, or worse? Better, or worse? Sometimes I can�t tell. So many things can blur my vision -- self-pity, loneliness, even tiredness and cold weather. I need to look closely, because the way I answer the question dictates how I will see. I write my own prescription and adjust my own vision by answering better, or worse. This time, I need to look carefully, and decide.

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