Three-hundred Fifty-one...

Only two weeks left.

Two weeks from today, I will drink a beer.  A Guinness.  In a bottle.  And then I will have a glass of whiskey.  Eagle Rare bourbon, my favorite.  On the rocks, in my favorite glass tumbler.  And who knows what else after that.

I can't tell what I'm feeling.  Something like excitement, but not quite.  Almost anxiety, but not exactly.  Anticipation?  Fear?  Some jumbled soup of them all, most likely.

I want it so badly.  I've never wanted a drink this much in my entire life.  I want a drink right now more than I ever, ever wanted a drink when I actually was drinking.

I feel so proud of myself for actually accomplishing this.

I feel guilty for feeling this way, and I try to suppress it, reminding myself that I haven't actually accomplished anything yet.  I have two weeks left to go.  I can feel proud then.  And celebrate with a drink.

I'm so scared that something bad is going to happen.  That I'm going to go off the deep end and lose control in some way that I never have before.  That I'm going to end up in another of those deep chemical depressions.  That I'm going to lose all of my creativity and desire to express myself.  That I'm going to lose the ability to write poetry.  Or worse, that I'm going to lose the ability to enjoy writing.  I'm scared of some other bad result that I haven't even thought of.

I'm scared of the fact that I don't know what's going to happen.

But I have to find out.

I have to know if I can handle it or not.

I have to find out how else the last year has changed me.