The drunkalog is where you beat your chest, beat your brains out on the floor, prove to God and his wife why you just had to get sober, because you’d have died, or your house would have exploded or you’d have eaten your own cat to get another drink.
I don’t believe in it. I don’t believe in inventory either (the supposedly benign, nay, essential form of drunkalog).
You don’t need to know the age I was when I first blacked out, the number of sexual partners of whom I can’t remember their faces (names? Gimme a break) the lists of people I’ve let down or the much shorter list of those I’ve buried.
Truly, neither do I. I don’t need lists to flagellate myself with, I don’t need absolution in the eyes of God or one single other person. I need to not do any of those things again. That’s all.
I forgive myself of everything I did when I was drunk, and I try my damnedest never to think about those things again. I earn the right to not look back, by being here and sober. That’s all anyone needs to know.
Come out of your confessionals and into the light, no one is condemned to repeat anything.