The Bottle in the Spare Room

Dear Delyara, I’ve started hiding a bottle of gin in the back of the linen closet. I wait until everyone is asleep, then I pour a glass and sit in the laundry room. It’s the only time the "noise" in my head stops. I’m a "good mother," a "good wife," and a "good employee," but those titles feel like a cage. The gin is the only thing that lets me be nothing for a while. I know it’s a problem. I know I should stop. But the thought of facing my life without that numbness is more terrifying than the secret itself.