Sobering Experience?
I use questions marks at the end of journal titles because I know they're stupid and obvious titles but I don't have any interest in coming up with alternate ones. It's lazy. Forgive me.
I spent my time housesitting as I normally do--playing with the dogs, walking them, reading law books, occasionally watching television and drinking excessively.
Felt different this time. Felt... sadder. Just futile and awful. The drinking, that is--the rest of it was fine.
I mean, the dogs were eating revolting things and kept licking me after, which made my skin crawl, but otherwise, totally cool. They're dogs. They do that.
Anyway, about three weeks ago, I had (unfortunately) a not-entirely-novel experience. I received a drunk dial from a friend. I frequently had late night tipsy-drunk conversations with this friend, we'd talk and drink and catch up until one of us needed to pass out. He was very drunk already and I was stone cold sober. I wanted to know what was going on in his life, so I stayed on the phone. Eventually, I realized I couldn't conduct this conversation with our capacities so disparate. I poured a drink.
And another. And another.
One bottle gone. I'll just have one more glass from this other bottle.
One more cigarette. One more drink. Second bottle gone. After that, I stop remembering.
I woke up the next morning. I use my hand to pull up my head to face the clock and a few things become immediately apparent:
1. I've missed my first class and will likely miss my second, in particular because I'm not sure if I'm sober yet.
2. I took a shower the previous night, blacked out, and bruised the entire lower half of my body (I can tell because my hair feels clean, I don't remember showering, and my entire body is sore). I wander around, find the second empty wine bottle in the backyard with some scattered cigarette butts. I throw together my bag and leave with some toast, coffee, and water.
After arriving at school, I decide I should take a break from drinking. Some break. Start with a week, see how it goes. That week was fine. Each day passes uneventfully--I don't feel any sort of pangs or cravings. At one point I had one beer. And another point, I had one glass of wine, at my mother's insistence. Fine. I was capable of this.
About a week and half had passed before I decided to drink a bottle of wine by myself while on the phone with Dave. He drinks scotch. He later informs me that I told him that he is handsome, that his writing is quite good, and that he should really watch those Derrick Comedy videos. When he makes fun of them without viewing them, I make threats on his life. I don't remember this, but it sounds right.
I recognize that, even on those nights I'd had one drink, I hadn't wanted to. I wanted more, and I had to talk myself out of consuming anything else. It was fucking laborious to decide to not have more. But it was not difficult, I realized, to not drink at all. Or not very.
I ignored this observation and began housesitting. I brought three beers from home. On the first night, I went to a 711 less than a mile away to buy more. And more. On one evening, I went by my house to get a bottle of wine, brought it to my housesitting location, and consumed it. Punctuality has never been my strong suit, but I was showing up late more, and feeling absolutely fucking awful doing it. And there was no rhyme or reason to it. No justification, no excuses of stress or elation or socializing. No special occasions to file under anomalies. I couldn't even understand the compulsion.
It's been there though. Growing.
Alcoholism is a progressive disease for most.
The first step is admitting you have a problem. Recent ex was good at this part. He had no problem saying he was an alcoholic. But he seemed to forget that there are 11 other steps or, if you don't like the AA route, one more step: stop. Forever.
So that's what I'm doing. Started last Friday. Friday I was apathetic. Saturday I struggled--my brother, shockingly, in his own drunken state, was strangely supportive. Sunday I felt fine. I felt great actually. Almost ... too good? As I left school from my study session, I felt optimistic about things to come, certain that this was the right choice, and a little proud that I'd figured it out without hitting a rock bottom. I was apprehensive though. Things were fine now--what about when things were harder? Well, I thought, I guess I'll just have to have a really shitty day. Like something fucking terrible will have to happen, and that'll be some kind of life test. Any day now, maybe I'll break a leg, or fail my exams, or lose my summer job, or get assaulted or robbed, I mused darkly, walking to the train yesterday.
Today my grandma died. I spent all afternoon holding my crying mother, when she wasn't making funeral arrangements.
Well played, Fate. And also, FUCK YOU.
I spent my time housesitting as I normally do--playing with the dogs, walking them, reading law books, occasionally watching television and drinking excessively.
Felt different this time. Felt... sadder. Just futile and awful. The drinking, that is--the rest of it was fine.
I mean, the dogs were eating revolting things and kept licking me after, which made my skin crawl, but otherwise, totally cool. They're dogs. They do that.
Anyway, about three weeks ago, I had (unfortunately) a not-entirely-novel experience. I received a drunk dial from a friend. I frequently had late night tipsy-drunk conversations with this friend, we'd talk and drink and catch up until one of us needed to pass out. He was very drunk already and I was stone cold sober. I wanted to know what was going on in his life, so I stayed on the phone. Eventually, I realized I couldn't conduct this conversation with our capacities so disparate. I poured a drink.
And another. And another.
One bottle gone. I'll just have one more glass from this other bottle.
One more cigarette. One more drink. Second bottle gone. After that, I stop remembering.
I woke up the next morning. I use my hand to pull up my head to face the clock and a few things become immediately apparent:
1. I've missed my first class and will likely miss my second, in particular because I'm not sure if I'm sober yet.
2. I took a shower the previous night, blacked out, and bruised the entire lower half of my body (I can tell because my hair feels clean, I don't remember showering, and my entire body is sore). I wander around, find the second empty wine bottle in the backyard with some scattered cigarette butts. I throw together my bag and leave with some toast, coffee, and water.
After arriving at school, I decide I should take a break from drinking. Some break. Start with a week, see how it goes. That week was fine. Each day passes uneventfully--I don't feel any sort of pangs or cravings. At one point I had one beer. And another point, I had one glass of wine, at my mother's insistence. Fine. I was capable of this.
About a week and half had passed before I decided to drink a bottle of wine by myself while on the phone with Dave. He drinks scotch. He later informs me that I told him that he is handsome, that his writing is quite good, and that he should really watch those Derrick Comedy videos. When he makes fun of them without viewing them, I make threats on his life. I don't remember this, but it sounds right.
I recognize that, even on those nights I'd had one drink, I hadn't wanted to. I wanted more, and I had to talk myself out of consuming anything else. It was fucking laborious to decide to not have more. But it was not difficult, I realized, to not drink at all. Or not very.
I ignored this observation and began housesitting. I brought three beers from home. On the first night, I went to a 711 less than a mile away to buy more. And more. On one evening, I went by my house to get a bottle of wine, brought it to my housesitting location, and consumed it. Punctuality has never been my strong suit, but I was showing up late more, and feeling absolutely fucking awful doing it. And there was no rhyme or reason to it. No justification, no excuses of stress or elation or socializing. No special occasions to file under anomalies. I couldn't even understand the compulsion.
It's been there though. Growing.
Alcoholism is a progressive disease for most.
The first step is admitting you have a problem. Recent ex was good at this part. He had no problem saying he was an alcoholic. But he seemed to forget that there are 11 other steps or, if you don't like the AA route, one more step: stop. Forever.
So that's what I'm doing. Started last Friday. Friday I was apathetic. Saturday I struggled--my brother, shockingly, in his own drunken state, was strangely supportive. Sunday I felt fine. I felt great actually. Almost ... too good? As I left school from my study session, I felt optimistic about things to come, certain that this was the right choice, and a little proud that I'd figured it out without hitting a rock bottom. I was apprehensive though. Things were fine now--what about when things were harder? Well, I thought, I guess I'll just have to have a really shitty day. Like something fucking terrible will have to happen, and that'll be some kind of life test. Any day now, maybe I'll break a leg, or fail my exams, or lose my summer job, or get assaulted or robbed, I mused darkly, walking to the train yesterday.
Today my grandma died. I spent all afternoon holding my crying mother, when she wasn't making funeral arrangements.
Well played, Fate. And also, FUCK YOU.