Out of hand

As usual things have escalated from a delightfully low base. In the space of a month I've gone through not remembering when I last had a drink to not remembering how much I had to drink last night. I peer at my face in the mirror the following morning, hate what I see, swear I won't do it again and know deep down that I haven't yet got to the point where I can go through a day without succumbing.

The worst of it is that I haven't bought a drop in all those weeks. He keeps on trotting home with it, even when I don't ask for it. So oblivious is he to the possibility of life without it, he fills what he sees as a gap and almost certainly thinks I should be pleased by his thoughtfulness, flattered by his attention. The scarier possibility is that he knows I'm less able to help myself when I'm helpless.