The thought of being sober was always there, lurking in the shadows of my mind like a mocking specter. Night after night, I’d lay my head on the pillow, the room spinning around me, as I made silent promises to myself. “This is it,” I’d whisper into the darkness, “I’m never going to drink again.” I clung to those words, desperately hoping they would shield me from my demons. As the sun peeked through the curtains, casting rays of light on my puffy, bloodshot eyes, I would awaken to a pounding headache and an overwhelming sense of regret. My body felt like it was weighed down by the shame of yet another failed attempt at sobriety. My spirit felt broken, and I hated myself for it. By noon, I would be making my first trip to the deli for a tall can to start my day. The familiar feeling of cold aluminum in my hand, and the sound of the can cracking open, became a pathetic routine of quitting and relapsing within hours. I’d convinced myself that the devil on my shoulder was right, that I needed the alcohol to transform me into the most entertaining version of King Roach possible. In my mind, I had turned my own abuse into a gimmick. I thought about Roach TV Wrestling Reviews, and how often I’d get completely hammered on screen, slurring my words and laughing maniacally. It was as if I had embraced my addiction, wearing it like a badge of honor. Yet, deep down, I knew I was only masking my pain. Each night, as I stumbled home, the weight of it all would bear down on me. I’d collapse onto the couch, the room spinning, tears streaming down my face as I swore once more that I’d never have another sip. The next morning, my resolve would crumble like a house of cards, and I’d find myself walking to the store for yet another round. The vicious cycle continued, each day blurring into the next as I drowned myself in alcohol, trying to numb the guilt, shame, and self-loathing that consumed me. The person I saw in the mirror was a stranger, a shell of the man I once was and the man I wanted to become. I couldn’t escape the feeling that I was losing myself, being swallowed whole by my addiction. But as I walked to the store for my daily fix, a small voice in the back of my mind would whisper, “You can always try getting sober again tomorrow.” Each time, the voice grew a little louder, a little more insistent, and every day, I would listen.

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