Most of the time, I feel happiness and satisfaction about my life. Not pride, exactly, since I couldn't have come this far if I hadn't fucked up so badly in the first place. But certainly contentment. That's why it's weird that I feel so bad about the two-year anniversary of my sobriety.

I haven't thought about it much at all, because when I do, this is what I feel: sorrow, anger, disbelief, regret, loneliness, fear, grief. What am I grieving for? Well, my old friends, certainly. My old self. My careless, carefree, reckless wreck of a life.

It's as if, two years ago today, I gave birth to a baby. I didn't know I was going to have it and I didn't know how to take care of it. But I knew I couldn't let it die. So I stayed up with it while it screamed and fretted and held it while it kicked. And over time, I learned how to soothe it and even nurture it, but my life was still changed forever by its presence. I have to take it with me everywhere, so I have to evaluate all my plans and all the people in my life to make sure that they'll be good for the baby. I can't take the same risks I did before, with safety or relationships or even lines of thought.

It's constant caretaking, constant watchfulness. I don't know what will happen with the baby. Maybe it will grow up, and I will become it, leaving my old self behind. Maybe I'll always have it with me. Like all offspring, it's both something I've gained and something I've lost.

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