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Magical thinking...

I'm sat in the sunshine with an old friend.

And so I don't see that he's walking through town until he's right at my table, telling me that he's had a drink.

And those words cut through me like knives and everything changes in an instant, as the grim reaper himself takes a seat right in front of me, grinning like a cheshire cat, pointing at his scythe and mouthing the words "I've got another one..."

Because he has.

Got another one...

If my friend can't get a hold on this.

He knows it and I know it.

And I think of my black dress as it hangs in the wardrobe and all of the times that I've worn it before, and I swear to God that if the grim reaper wasn't already dead, in that split second I happily would kill him myself.

But instead I cut short my conversation and I go to my friend and I don't have the words for a minute.

Because what can I say exactly?

That he hasn't already heard.

I can't tell him off - its not like he's a child.

I can't get angry or frustrated or raise my voice...or tell him for the millionth time that he's made a monumental mistake...because we both know that he already knows this shit.

It's his 6th time around in recovery...

So instead I just wrap my arms around him and tell him I'll be over later and we can try and come up with a plan.

And I do...

I go back to see him and I buy us a thai and we sit on the sofa in his flat leaning in to each other like we both used to sit in the old days in detox.

And we talk about how it was for us then and the people we met and the mates we have lost and the journey we've had up to now.

And we both get emotional as we laugh and we cry...

And I play him a podcast with my legs draped across him and we sit and talk for hours, then we go to bed where we lie fully clothed spooning each other...neither of us sleeping as we both wonder what the next 24 hours will bring now that he's relapsed.

Because he's going to stop drinking.



Just like that...

At least that's what he's telling himself.

Only he's not...not really.

It's magical thinking.

Because if he was able to pick up and put down at will then he wouldn't be an addict in the first place...

And he can't pick up and put down at will, which means that he is...

I've seen him on the brink of death before...him and Sam, another friend, both of them bright yellow in detox, looking like those american kids glowing from drinking way too much sunny delight...only he and Sam were glowing because their  livers were fucked... wrecked in two years on cheap sherry and cider...

Sam's dead now.

We thought he'd be ok but he wasn't and he died.

And this guy knows this.

Sam was his best friend...and he saw him in the hospice and he saw the horrors of the damage done in Sams last days  and yet he has still picked up and had another drink...which means that there is a strong possibility that he will be Sam.

And my heart is breaking and I'm starting to struggle now...

Because I've realised that my own recovery came with a caveat.

One that I didn't know I'd signed up to...

 Because clearly when I  signed myself into detox, and agreed to do whatever it took to save my life, I  somehow missed the shit piece of paper right at the back which was written by the devil himself and I didn't read the small print.

Because yes I got to live, and I am honestly, truly grateful for my recovery, every single day...

But now I'm an actress.

Every day of my life.

And I get to star in the worst fucking horror film in the world.

It's called "Guess who's next"

And I can't do a fucking thing about it...

Except write.













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