When you question yourself, you're indulging in a form of masochism that is not only debilitating, but also quite dull. I've spent a good portion of my life debilitating myself with relentless questions...and boring myself along the way. I've made some good decisions in my life, but mostly they've been bad and in some cases, odd and bad. My point is, no matter how odd they were or how you should have seen this coming, I couldn't help making those decisions, because they seemed right to me at the time. not right-right...just right for me. How can someone punish themselves (or be punished) for something that seemed right?

One of the reasons I don't believe in religion (even though I believe in God) is because it makes you subscribe to a certain belief system, even if deep down inside, you don't believe it. I mean, in order to be a pious Muslim or Christian or Jew, you don't have to change the way you feel, just the way you behave. So, if I get this right, how you feel or what you think (and feelings and thinking are the two things that all religions cite as features that distinguish us from the savage beasts) is actually irrelevant compared to how you act and what you project.

Maybe there is some value in denying your baser impulses. Deny yourself what you feel and think, so you have more. Kind of like how fasting clears your head (or lowers your blood sugar, depending on your viewpoint) and brings you closer to God. But why the circular logic of creating us, so we can be proof of his or her existence.

I digress, in a big way. My original point is that I've made some terrible choices. Alienated a lot of people, stayed in many scenarios I should have avoided and run away from too many situations I should have stayed and fought against (or for). And the more I live, as I lie on the cusp of my 36th birthday, the more my regrets weigh me down and the whispery what-ifs become ever more vocal, until they begin to sound like a thousand haunting voices in some echo-filled cavern. They are driving me insane. And the more I drink, the more of the day I lose and the less able I am to piece together a coherent defence for why I am where I am with what little I have to show for it.

And yet to not drink and try and forget, would be to invite the pain of gnawing self-doubt, an ever-present companion these days I'm afraid, into my chambers and to have it do bloody murder unto me on a daily basis, in what can only be classified as a crime of no-passion.

I'm lonely. And I know I'm in a new country, so I'm supposed to be lonely..but I was lonely before I left as well. And by lonely, I don't mean having people around me, because I've had those wherever I've gone. And I've scared most of them away and those that didn't get scared...well, I love them for staying. Even if they did stay for their own hopes and fears.

If I drink some more, I lose more of my mind each time I sober up and realize how much I've missed. If I don't drink, the terrible stillness of the never-ending day mixed with the uncertainty about my choices don't stop pounding on the little door in my brain, marked 'Let-yourself-in-take-whatever-you-want'.

I wish I'd done things differently. But to do that, you'd need a different person. I would have made the same calls today as I did back then, because I love/ loathe/ believe/ accept the same things today as I did back then. Which means my unhappiness today is as it is supposed to be. And its all in how I deal with it.

Great. More choices.