When the hell did it get so bad? When did it get so out of control? I don't remember.
I was really scared for a long time, but I buried that fear deep down under a swamp of alcohol, and kept telling myself tomorrow will be different. If everyday begins and ends in the exact same way, it's kind of hard to ever get to tomorrow. When the days started to begin with alcohol on a consistent basis, things started to go south faster.
I had been no stranger to drinking in the morning, that's for sure. I would always have more Bloody Mary's or mimosa's than everyone else when I was still being invited to breakfast. Or, maybe crack one too many beers while watching football with friends on a Sunday morning. But, this type of morning drinking was different. It was me, alone, with whatever I could find on hand at my parents house. It wasn't a social thing, it was a necessity to stop the anxiety, and to stop the shaking. It was to help cover up the years of lies I had told, and to numb me from the abuse I had inflicted on myself. I would tell myself I would just have one sip to calm myself down, and before I knew it I would have finished half the bottle of whiskey, or tequila, or rum, or whatever it was I could find at seven or eight-o'-clock in the morning. After a couple of sips the world seemed perfectly at peace and the pain was gone. I don't know exactly when this started, but when it did, it followed a pattern like that first sip. Just once. Just this one time, slowly became everyday.
I cried a lot. I was scared.
No comments:
Post a Comment