“How often do you feel like consuming alcohol?” the therapist asks.

I inhale deeply as I rest my back into the familiar recline of the seat I sat in, in search of a more comfortable pose. I close my eyes not to sleep, but to enjoy aesthetically, the serenity of the room. This was how most our sessions began. With the air still as a painting, the sun rays artfully piercing into the office through the window pane and the room as quiet as midnight. I have found some solace here.

“Are you still with me?” the therapist asks probably unsure of my consciousness.

I sighed deeply “I always feel like drinking every minute of every day” I finally replied still keeping my eyes closed.

“Would you attribute that feeling to sadness or things going wrong around you?” she probes. I keep mute for some minutes again with my eyes closed before I speak.

“I don’t drink because I’m sad, sadness just gives me a reason to drink” I stopped, opening my eyes to see her eyes hold a trusting but curious glare.

“Do go on” she implores, uncrossing her toned long legs.

“If I don’t have what I want, I’m lonely and sad so I drink.”

“And if you do have what you want?”

“if I do have what I want, I am certain I’m going to lose it. And the wait for that eventuality is unbearable and so once more I drink”

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