Katarina called me last night. She wanted to chat about the community bake sale coming up. It was one of those small-town things we did every year, where everyone baked something and pretended everything was sweet. Her voice was light, full of small details about cakes and cookies. But all I could think of was the bottles lining the shelf in my kitchen.<\/p>\n
I sat on my couch, listening to her plans. The air felt heavy, even though it was summer. I shifted, trying to get comfortable, but the cushion felt wrong under me. I told Katarina I would bake brownies. She sounded relieved, like she always did when I agreed to help. She didn’t notice the weight in my voice. Or maybe she did and chose not to ask.<\/p>\n
After we hung up, I stayed on the couch, staring at the space in front of me. The bottles were right there, visible from where I sat, daring me to ignore them. I thought about how often I counted them, almost like a second job. It was something I’d gotten used to without realizing how strange it was.<\/p>\n
There was a time when I didn’t think about these things. That was before counting drinks became my evening routine. In those days, alcohol was something we enjoyed together, not something I watched warily. It wasn’t until later that I noticed the change\u2014the way his laughter got louder, how his words slurred. The shift was subtle, like an invisible line crossing into unknown territory.<\/p>\n
I remember one night, clearer than others. I lost track of how many drinks he had. I was distracted by a phone call, a quick conversation with my sister who needed advice. By the time I realized, it was too late. The door slammed when he left, and I was left with silence and my thoughts.<\/p>\n
Maybe I am remembering it wrong. It’s possible it didn’t happen exactly like that. But that’s how it felt, like a quiet betrayal I couldn’t quite put my finger on. The pattern soon became familiar\u2014quiet nights, loud arguments, and mornings of regret. I learned to predict the chaos with a simple count.<\/p>\n
Katarina once asked why I never joined them at the local bar anymore. I shrugged it off, saying I was just too tired after work. She didn’t press, which I appreciated. The truth is, I didn’t want to watch the drinks add up around me. It was easier at home, where I had some control over the environment.<\/p>\n
As time went on, my own relationship with alcohol shifted. Pouring myself a drink became less about enjoyment and more about bracing for what might happen. It wasn’t until recently I understood how strange that was\u2014that I shouldn’t need to brace myself at all. The thought hit me unexpectedly, like a light turning on in a dark room.<\/p>\n
I wondered if anyone else had noticed. In our small town, people talked. Katarina was probably aware but chose not to pry. I felt a mix of gratitude and sadness for her silence. Part of me wished someone had asked sooner, but another part was glad they hadn’t. It would have forced me to say things I wasn’t ready to admit out loud.<\/p>\n
One evening, while folding laundry, I caught myself counting drinks in my head. I held a shirt in my hands, and paused. My fingers were stiff, cold like they were that night. It was such a small thing, but it felt big. I realized I could let go. The bottles didn’t have to be my problem anymore.<\/p>\n
That evening, I made a different choice. I poured the rest of the wine down the sink, watching it swirl away. It was a small act, but it felt huge. I felt light, as if I’d lifted something invisible from my shoulders. The room seemed brighter, like opening a window after a storm.<\/p>\n
Katarina noticed the next day when she came by to drop off baking supplies. Her eyes lingered on the empty shelf where the bottles used to be. She didn’t say anything, but her small nod spoke volumes. Maybe she understood more than I gave her credit for. I smiled, feeling a quiet pride that I had not expected.<\/p>\n
I knew it might be a while before everything felt right again. Old habits die hard, but at least now, I was choosing different ones. Without the need to count, my relationship with alcohol was changing. It became something I could enjoy on my own terms, not out of necessity.<\/p>\n
The night of the bake sale, I stood by the dessert table, feeling different. The air felt the same, the chatter familiar, but something had shifted inside me. As I served each piece of my brownies, I felt a quiet strength in the simple act of being present, without looking over my shoulder.<\/p>\n
If you or someone you know is going through this, you are not alone. Please reach out to a local domestic violence helpline or someone you trust.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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