You need the psychological goodies, but you’ve never been able to believe.
You suspect that the trick might be to pretend so well that you forget you’re pretending.
But to admit you’re pretending is to stop pretending, right?
Remember when you were a kid, how easy it was?
Imagine that your addiction is lava, flowing all around you.
HP is the talking eagle, swooping down to save you.
You’ve always liked ducks better, personally, but yeah: webbed feet.
The believers treat you as though you’re just a little behind, but that’s okay.
You’re riding the short bus on the road to spirituality, but at least you’re getting there!
You think you could catch “up” to them quicker by hitting yourself in the head with a ball-peen hammer, maybe.
But saying that wouldn’t be kind.
“Just keep an open mind,” they tell you.
The implicit assumption being that you want to grow up to be like them.
When pressed, they deny this, of course.
They really are just trying to help.
In the meantime your HP (whom you doubt you will ever choose to call “God”) is just that thing in you that makes you feel guilty when you fuck up.
But now you talk to it as though it’s a person, sitting there.
And because you’re a sensitive guy, you make it a woman, instead of a man.
But not a hot woman, because that would be weird.
See? Once you dig into this shit, it always falls apart.
You know your sponsor would tell you that you’re overthinking.
But wouldn’t the attempt to decrease your thinking require more vigilance = thinking?
Oh well, fuck it. Time for bed.
Everybody means well, anyway, and at least you’re still sober.
The meetings are nice, and everybody is friendly and accepting.
So anyway. Goodnight, HP.