The only other I ever loved more than myself was a stiff drink.
Just the other day, my shrink had asked me to picture a happy safe place. All I could think of was me on a bar stool, in a dimly lit English bar decorated in the colors of faded red and moldy green hues and standing magnificently before me would be a vodka tonic. My blanket of warmth, my best friend, my lover.
Every single time I tried to bid farewell, I would feel like I never gave it a proper good bye. I find myself at yet another bar, giving it one eulogy after another only to have the bar staff make sure it never truly died. I may stumble home with my "take away" wine and promise myself and anyone willing to listen that.. Tomorrow is another day, another good bye, another try.
Am I really an alcoholic?
I had my first drink when I was 14. I remember the taste of overwhelming lime concentrate that over powered the cheap vodka. Over the years, I would discover a whole new world. So many drinks and not enough weekends. My curiosity to drink turned into a deadly silent compulsion.
It soon became a love/hate affair, the more I tried to stay away
the more I was drawn to it. I had both celebrated joyous occasions and
my lowest points tied to it. Like an abusive relationship, the more hurt
it inflicted, the more I craved it and I kept running back. Quickly
enough, the bad outweighed the good. It was making its way into every
aspect of my life and demanding to take over.
When I drank, the world became a better place. It is almost as if the
world wars never happened. Care bears truly exist and I am happy. I feel
trapped in a blurry bubble of joy, desperately trying to maintain
balance. Too little and the buzz may wear off, too much and I end up sad
about something stupid. The endless chase of "the perfect median" would
keep my drinking habit alive for years and steer me further and further
away from everything else and quite frankly, the possibility of
perfect.
