I kept counting.
My fingers flicking open in order and hands always switching. Bent, crooked and flexed. New lines have formed on my palms. My fingers are no exception. I am slowly ageing without careful observation. My hands are still soft.
My hands have always been one of the parts of my body I love. Very dainty, with clear lines and structure. Soft in texture but tough enough to fight.
Anyway, I kept counting.
I would deduct the dates and add the hours. Announcing it to him before smiling to myself. Encouragement is essential, and it would show him that I appreciate his effort. I really do.
Going clean is just so difficult when it is a habit lasting for years.
Any habit is hard to break. Even a person’s will might be weaker than the reliance on habit.
The last number counted to, on 25th August 2016. And somehow I just stopped. The number still lying somewhere among the rest of my disorganised notes. Funny how I stopped then.
I remember planning something. When it hits a bigger number. Maybe 500? But when is someone ever truly clean though?
So naïve, I am. So misunderstood about cructhes, vices and addiction.
Now I know that too much faith can break you. Especially when it is outside of your control. Especially when your own hands cannot tell the future that is someone else.
But I knew. I remember asking questions every time I saw a cigarette in photographs, moments digitally recorded or a pack lying on the table.
Perhaps my gut knew, and I chose to turn my observations to something else. Like the new scars on my right hand, from the dog bites.
430 days of being in a grey area unknowingly. Neither here nor there. A space of unknowing and false comfort.
How strange to look back at this now. Am I really out of this space now, even in my head? Or do I never really get to leave?