Some mornings I wake up feeling off — foggy, disoriented, stumbling. Perhaps it’s a lingering dream. Or digestion doing what it does (or doesn’t). Or deep rooted anxiety about the father who abandoned me as a child. It could be a lot of things.
But, in any case, I get into my car and drive like shit. I scrape against the garage door; I almost hit a pedestrian I simply didn’t see; I pull into traffic too slowly and am greeted with the panicked honk of a swerving driver.
I ask you this: Am I sober?
Like most people, this fog usually disappears with some coffee. In fact, if I don’t have coffee, I get agitated and a headache. Just ask my kid — every time I’m grumpy he suggests we get some coffee. It’s humiliating. And that pang of humiliation, I believe, comes from how we define sobriety.
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