Nine Minutes

"Nine minutes. A craving only lasts nine minutes."   Whoever worked that out was a Tea Totaller.

This is not a craving. This is hell.

I do a physical body scan. I feel like I don’t even know my own body anymore. It is as if she is systematically getting karmic retribution for the sins that I have committed against her for the past five years. My head is begging to be allowed to implode. The throbbing pain is making it impossible to open my eyes. I want to sleep, but my heart is racing too badly. I fear that it may actually seize and give up soon. My nerves are on fire. My senses are overloaded within a hair width their breaking points. My brain is trying to fire signals through a vat of electrified oatmeal. I am shaky and weak. I don’t even trust my hands to hold a cup of coffee. Not that my digestive system could handle it anyway. My feet, legs and back burn from forty miles of marathon, merry-go-round walking. Counting the cobblestones that I step on. Putting one foot in front of the other until I am too exhausted to take another step. Until I can come home, shower and crawl into bed. The sheets beneath me are soaked. I am drenched in my own sweat. I feel absolutely disgusting. I have already showered and changed my bedding and clothes three times today. I physically can not do it again. So, I lay shivering and miserable.

The pop of a cork would end this.

But, then, I would lose these precious three days of sobriety. I made a promise to myself. So, I lay still with my eyes closed, listening to the same song on repeat and waiting for this nine minutes to pass.