March 11 was a day that should have been a celebration, but it only served to remind me of how far I’d fallen. With another year of life under my belt, I felt lower than ever before. I couldn’t bring myself to celebrate, not when so much was still broken in my life. My marriage, my career – they felt like distant dreams, slipping further away with each passing moment. I’d started making visits back to my hometown, Bushwick, seeking refuge in the bars that once brought me comfort. These dimly lit, familiar places had become my escape from the chaos that had consumed my life. I’d find solace in the company of old friends and familiar faces, the people who had known me before I became the man I am today. Brenna and I were communicating, but things were no closer to being fixed in our marriage. It was as if we were speaking different languages, unable to bridge the gap that had grown between us. The love was still there, but it was buried beneath layers of pain and disappointment. I knew I had to change, but I felt powerless to do so, trapped in a cycle of self-destruction that seemed impossible to break. Sitting at the bar, I stared at the tall pint of lager before me. I knew I shouldn’t drink it, that it would only make things worse, but the pull was too strong. As I took the first sip, I closed my eyes and let the familiar warmth wash over me. I continued to drown my sorrows, each gulp taking me further away from the man I wanted to be, and closer to the person I was trying to escape.
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