"When I thought of having that drink," he said, "this was not the one, but this is the one it always comes to." He was coming off, or hoping at least that he could, a bout he'd had before. The drink he'd set out to have, the "just this one," was now about a year ago. There had been less pleasure in it than he had hoped there might be, and less still in the ones that had followed. It was soon no choice at all, and back to being compulsion. It had hold of him and held him very tightly. In no time at all there was no pleasure, and there had never been satisfaction.
It was time to take back his life, to again take up his dignity, recognizing it as his own and remembering how it ends when you reach for "just this one." Good luck.
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