I remember the specific shame of hiding empty wine bottles at the bottom of the recycling bin, like someone was going to do an archeological dig through my garbage. It wasn't just the bottles, but the frantic mental math of how many days I'd been "good," and whether the evidence would betray the lie I was telling myself. The recycling bin became a confessional, but to a god I didn't believe in. It was never just the bottles, was it? It was the wrappers from the secret candy bars I devoured in the car, the takeout containers hidden under mountains of junk mail so no one would know how much I "didn't feel like cooking." The garbage became a monument to my self-deception.