Today was supposed to be another step forward, but here I am, facing the hard truth of a step back. I won’t sugarcoat it—I’m disappointed in myself. I’ve been on this journey to quit alcohol, and I’ve been doing so well. Until tonight. Tonight, the clock starts over. And damn, does it feel like I let myself down.
It didn’t take much. The excitement was contagious—the new living room set finally arrived, the house smelled incredible with Anthony’s cooking, and everything felt festive. It was one of those nights that begged to be celebrated, and I got caught up in it all. I gave in. I poured myself some tequila, and I wish I hadn’t. I hate drinking. I hate everything about it—the way it makes me feel, the way it slows me down, the way it steals pieces of my momentum. Yet somehow, in that moment, it still felt like the right thing to do.
I don’t even like tequila. I don’t like the way it burns going down or how it numbs the sharpness of my thoughts. And now, as I sit here typing this out, the regret sits heavy in my chest. I feel like I betrayed myself. It’s this vicious cycle that never really seems to let go, no matter how far I think I’ve come. They say once an alcoholic, always one, and maybe that’s the part I hate the most—the idea that this thing, this ugly, gnawing habit, is something I’ll have to fight for the rest of my life.
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve tried to quit drinking. But this time, this stretch of sobriety, was my longest yet. It was a milestone I was quietly proud of. And tonight, that streak ended. I tell myself that slipping up doesn’t erase all the progress I’ve made, but the sting of starting over feels like a slap to the face.
Anthony was in it with me tonight, caught up in the same excitement. He’s been making tamales all day—his process is like an art form. He started with the pork in the slow cooker, letting it break down until it falls apart on its own. The smell of red chile simmering in the house was almost intoxicating on its own. He was supposed to finish making the tamales tonight, but the tequila got to him, too. By the time he stumbled to bed, he was blacked out, mumbling random cuss words in his sleep. I know that means he’s out cold, and honestly, I don’t have the heart to wake him.
I thought about finishing the tamales myself. It could’ve been a surprise for him, a way to make up for the chaos of the night. But I know better. Cooking has never been my strong suit, and the last thing I want to do is ruin something he’s worked so hard on. So, the slow cooker stays on. By morning, the meat will be even more tender, and maybe Anthony will feel well enough to pick up where he left off.
We didn’t even get to eat the tamales tonight. Instead, we ordered McDonald’s delivery—because yeah, that’s a thing now. Fast food delivered to your door. It’s not exactly how I imagined Christmas dinner, but it felt necessary. The thought of either of us going to bed on an empty stomach didn’t sit right with me. So, burgers and fries it was. It’s funny how quickly a night can unravel, how what starts as a celebration can spiral into a scene you never planned for.
Now I’m here, alone with my thoughts. Anthony’s passed out in bed, and I’m trying to quiet my mind with some flower. It’s a ritual that feels almost sacred—rolling, lighting, inhaling. It doesn’t numb me the way alcohol does; instead, it slows everything down just enough for me to breathe. To think. To process.
The truth is, I’m angry at myself. I know better. I know what alcohol does to me, how it makes me feel, how it leaves me hating myself in the morning. And yet, there’s always that voice in the back of my head whispering, “Just one won’t hurt.” That voice is a liar. One always turns into more, and the aftermath is never worth it.
I’m not writing this to wallow in guilt. If anything, I’m writing it to remind myself—and maybe anyone reading this—that slips happen. They’re part of the journey, even though they suck. Tomorrow is a new day, a new chance to try again. I don’t have to let tonight define me or undo the progress I’ve made. It’s a bump in the road, not the end of it.
So here’s my advice, to myself and to anyone listening: don’t drink. It’s not worth it. The high is temporary, and the regret lasts far longer. Whatever it is you’re trying to escape or celebrate or drown, there are better ways to do it. Learn from me. Don’t let the clock start over.
And to Anthony, I’ll meet you in bed soon. Tomorrow, we’ll tackle the tamales together. And hopefully, we’ll wake up ready to start fresh—not just with the food, but with everything else, too.
Merry Christmas to anyone who’s reading this. Be safe. Don’t do anything dumb. And if you’ve got something to fight, keep fighting it. You’re stronger than you think, even when it doesn’t feel like it.