Thursday the fourth: Charlie invites me out to the Fox and Hound after work for a beer. My first time back in a bar since, I think, early December in New York. Maybe South Carolina. As soon as I walk in and am hit with the thick of cigarette smoke, I get that ambi-feel: at once repulsed and deeply nostalgic and desirous. I order St. Pauli’s Girl NA. Thank God they had a non-alcoholic brew, and a good one at that. It tasted so good. I was thirsty. Finished two bottles before he and his pal Tony finished their pints. Along in there came the inevitable question about whether I drink at all. I explained that I had already completed a lifetime’s worth of drinking, that I compressed it into a few years and got it out of the way. “I’m an all or nothing kind of guy,” I said. I left early, explaining that without the alcohol, one just doesn’t have the same stamina. I had a good time, though, and was proud of myself for doing well. Going and not drinking was better than not going at all. I believe though one may need to isolate herself for short-term success, long-term success cannot happen that way. So it was not only a triumph but a necessary next step that came due. Still, the ambiness lingered through the night; I pined a little for a life and ability to have that old kind of fun.

Monday, Sunday night, and lately: There’s a little bit of tension between Mom and I, and I think the frustration with the other person goes both ways. This morning’s example: I ask her to feel Buddy’s paw because I think there’s a piece of staple left in there. She thinks so too. I talk about how angry that makes me because of the additional pain it will cause the dog, the time and energy it will take to have it treated, the logistic difficulties of caring for the dog post-procedure, and the fact that I have so needed and looked forward to a relaxing, uneventful day off finally. She tells me that I should call the vet and what I should say. I say, “I planned to. And, actually, I know what to say.” Her demeanor shifts in an instant and I can’t tell if she’s bugged or hurt. “Don’t get mad,” I say. “It’s just that I want you to know that some parts of me are adultish.” She’s up from her chair and clearing the breakfast table, not saying anything. I coax and tell her I didn’t mean to hurt her feelings. She says I didn’t but her demeanor says otherwise. I say I’ll do the dishes, because the rule’s been that if one prepares a meal, the other cleans up after and I’ve told her recently that I want to be better about helping. “I’m already here,” she says. “I am too,” I say. And she leaves. When I’m done I tell her the last cookie (from the batch I made last night) is hers. “No, it’s yours,” she says, and it sounds to me a little martyrish. Thing is, she’s sweet, but she has a hard time letting go of her motherness, which is okay to an extent, but I want to feel respected, too. I hate to feel this way—let alone make public record of it—but I’m really wanting my own space, my own apartment or (lately) house. Putting aside the question of immediate accountability and my ability to remain abstinent without it, it makes way way way way way more financial sense for me to stay here for a good while longer—well beyond what may be required for smooth recovery. I’m over $12,000 in debt and am making only a little over minimum wage for part-time hours. Ugh.