Elias

February 27th, 2015

Six months.

It took six months, twenty five days, and forty three hundred hours for me to finally figure out how to stop being a total fuck up.

You learn a couple things when you hit rock bottom.

Things most people get right the first time around, like how to not drink yourself to death, how to not overdose, and how to not piss off the people you love.

Well, I'm still working on that last one, but whatever I'm trying.

Anyway, I'd like to say I grew up a lot in rehab.

I read a lot too and obviously, I'm not the world's biggest fan of books...unless it has raunchy pictures or they're written by a certain someone. Judge all you want, but when you're stuck in a facility for six months, reading actual books, reminiscing, and finding time to jack off without anybody bothering you start to be the highlights of your day. Real talk.

Granted, I only read like, one real book the whole time, but it changed the way I thought about things.

11th Hour by Spencer Brandt.

The guy's basically a guru in helping screw-ups like me get their heads on straight so they can live life normally for a change.

He talked a lot about accepting where you come from so you can get where you're going.

Lots of deep, psychological stuff.

And a shit ton of words I didn't understand.

But that's okay, 'cause it took my mind off the past so I could focus on the future.

My new medication kinda helps with that too.

But I guess now I can say that I've accepted where my life's headed.

At least, I like to pretend I have.

I've also gotten really good at pretending that I'm completely over feeling anything for a girl who's not my girlfriend.

But that's not important.

Or maybe it is.

Fuck it, let's talk about something else.

Anyway, moral of the story is, I'm "better" now.

My therapist is stoked.

Dr. Perry calls all my big, fat, psychological strides "positive progress."

The guy doesn't have a clue what's actually going on inside my head, but he likes false results and illiteration? Alliteration. Got it.

He likes numbers too.

So six months of a "less depressed" Elias King is a big deal for him. So big, in fact, that he even came up with a catch phrase just for me.

"Sobriety, satisfaction, success."

Lame, right?

Well, these are the kind of love letters I get these days, ladies.

Dr. Perry sends me little motivational gems on a monthly basis.

I "graduated from rehab" on Thanksgiving. I've gotten a card from him on the twenty-seventh of each month ever since.

Today's the twenty-seventh of February.

Today's supposed to be a big deal for me for lots of reasons.

Nine months of sobriety's supposed to be one of them.

My daughter being born in around twenty-four hours is the other.

I'd like to say these last nine months meant something.

That they changed me.

Made me a satisfied, sober, success story.

Not to mention, a good almost-father and a decent make-believe boyfriend.

Problem is...

I'm still in love with a girl who's three thousand miles across the country...

...and I have every intention of trying to get her back.