Writing my wrongs...

So, another cab ride into a strange town, surrounded by beautiful scenery, thousands of miles away from anything remotely close to responsibility and inside I was miserable. 

If one is in recovery long enough, you hear about the hole in our stomachs...the one that no amount of booze, drugs, sex, relationships, (and no, the two are not mutually exclusive) shopping, or other peoples money can fill.  I mean here I was, literally in paradise and all I wanted to do was numb out. 

I told the cabdriver the same thing I had told the one in Alaska, and after about fifteen minutes he deposited me in front of a weekly motel, right on the water and I paid for two weeks up front. 

All the rooms had lanais' (balconies) and the Pacific Ocean was crashing onto huge rocks fifteen feet away. There was an ice and beer store a block away. 

I strolled through town, got something to eat and picked up two six packs of Stienlager and some ice.

I cracked a beer on my lanais and watched the sun set somewhere over Japan and did my best to fill the hole.

I came to around daybreak with what felt like an icepick lodged in my temporal lobe and empty beer bottles surrounding me on the floor.

My God, someone had cranked up the volume on the waves...I felt like hell and noticed my big blue recovery book was laying on the floor. Soaked.

 It smelled like urine, and I could only hope it was my own.