When Self-Help Wasn’t
Giab ‘Dear Genie” prompt #2: forgiveness
A little over two years later, all that’s left is a pale pink and white parenthesis over the edge of my left eyebrow. If you run your fingertip gently over the scar, you can feel the indentation.
After a lifetime of only occasional social drinking and just one hangover, I discovered the joy of using alcohol for its assault on sobriety. I used it to relax at a wedding reception where I knew almost no one and the few people I did know wanted to catch up with other people. Then I used it at night when I couldn’t fall asleep. And then, I used it when I came home from work to forget about the shitty day I’d had, working for a boss much younger than I was, who also happened to be — in my opinion — a dopey, ass-kissing jerk.
It worked. There was even an added benefit: drinking killed my appetite, so the more I drank, the less I ate. The pounds started coming off with no broccoli consumption necessary. A dream come true.
On the surface, this was the perfect self-help tool. I hated what my job had become and I resented the time I wasted at the office, doing work I no longer enjoyed for people I had no respect for. At the same time, I was terrified of leaving my job and no longer being able to provide for my family. I missed my parents, who had died within a few weeks of…
