I knew I was an alcoholic by the age of fifteen or sixteen. I knew because I knew what an alcoholic was; someone who couldn’t stop drinking once they started, or someone who drank even when they knew it was bad for them, or someone who blacked out when they drank, or someone who became someone else when they drank, or someone who craved alcohol nearly all the time - all of those things really, and all of those things were me.  I knew there were two types of alcoholics, one type that didn’t drink all the time but when they did they went nuts on it (binge drinkers), or the other type that couldn’t go without it (daily drinkers).  At times, I’ve been both. 

Time and time again, I would seek to understand what the meaning of life was. Searching the recesses of my mind asking myself “Who am I? Why do I operate the way that I do? What is my purpose?”.  The questions may not always look so deep and meaningful they may have been quite negative, more like “why am I such an idiot?” Or “why me?”.   I spend a good portion of my life feeling sorry for myself, blaming my outer circumstances…

Do you find yourself constantly talking about the things that outrage you? Repeating the same story five times to different people, rehashing the drama that’s gotten under your skin, feeding off the outrage that you have inspired in your friends and family? You may just be feeding the beast - an anger addiction.