Go right in, have a seat, make yourself comfortable. Sit in your hiding spot in plain sight, but knowing no one is looking. Crack it. Pound it. Let the coldness flow through your throat, your stomach. How do you feel? The back of my tongue tastes bitter. I feel a strange bodily comfort. I feel a little dizzy. A little euphoric. I feel a little melted, a little less gripped with the White Knuckles.
This is the high we chase. These brief moments of warmth coursing through the veins, the neurotransmitters pouring forth, docking and releasing, the relaxed face and jaw, the floodgates opened, the pressure valve released, a tide of relief bathes us in comfort. Those few moments. That’s all we want. And it’s all we get. When it’s over, the demand to feel it again drives us to get more and more. More will bring it back. But it’s too late. It’s only those first moments from the first drink.
Can I say it was worth it? Knowing what I’ve just done? Does it actually matter? Do the hours and days and moments of resisting the compulsion, pulling back on those reins, driving myself mad with the pacing and planning, do they matter? Letting the aftermath I know will come sneak in a bit of sanity here and there. Those first moments, are they worth the hours of agony, of guilt, anger, self-hatred, shame… are those first moments worth it? While we are in them, yes. But five minutes later, we already feel the disappointment, the emptiness, we know if we just had some more it will be better again, we will feel it again. My heart already pounds. My eyes already tired. My brain already confused and slow. Someone asked me a question, a simple question, and I don’t understand it; it’s intruding on my self-centered loathing and self-pity, my justifications, my explanations. I want to shout at them to go away, their question doesn’t matter to me. I look at the questioner and it’s an innocent, small boy wondering where the packet of chips are. Fuck you and your chips, my alcoholic, selfish mind thinks. I don’t know, I say out loud. I don’t care, I think.
This is why we don’t drink.
- makes me think