As you can surmise from the title of this column, I am at the 364 day mark of my non-alcohol life. One year ago tomorrow I went to detox and got cleared of my physical booze dependency. It's been surprisingly easy. I have yet to relapse. But let's not get cocky yet. I still have time to go before I make it to my official one year mark. There is still one liquor store in Elmhurst open, and it's there until midnight. So who knows? Maybe I'll lose my shit after I post this and get drunk. I doubt it, but the possibility is still there. I kinda wish 365 was today, as I don't post GFs on weekends. Ah well.
So let's celebrate something else. One year ago tonight I was getting wasted for the last time. I remember I had maybe three fingers worth of whiskey at the bottom of a Flesichmann's handle. I also had the same in a fifth of Wild Turkey 101. Lastly I had my whiskey barrel that was maybe three-quarters full.
Earlier that day I was thinking about maybe putting an end to the madness. I was covered in bruises I no longer recall the cause of. I'd been found wandering the house naked and out of my mind. I'd broken some shit in my bedroom, and I think it was because I fell on top of it all. So yeah, the end was definitely nigh.
Before I ripped into the booze one last time, I thought I was sober. Looking back, I probably wasn't. When I turned myself in to detox, I thought I was sober, but when they asked me to blow I was well above the legal limit to drive. That made me think about all the times I thought I was sober and actually wasn't. How many times did I drive not knowing that I was actually fucked up?
Anyway, while I thought I was sober I called Sonny. I'm pretty sure I mentioned him before. When I was in and out of the hospital with pancreatitis, gastritis, gastroenteritis, kidney failure, etc., they'd send in all these shrinks to try to help me see my own alcoholism, and none of them worked. Then they sent Sonny in. He's possibly the most Italian guy I've ever met outside of my own family who wasn't a parody. And he cursed like a sailor. He didn't take it easy with me. He shot straight, no bullshit. So I called him when I'd had enough, and he scheduled a pickup for me the next day.
Before and after that, I tried calling a few friends looking for some kind of advice, which is odd for me because it's not something I ever do. A couple of my friends actually picked up. One before I started drinking, one after. I ripped through the Fleischmann's and Wild Turkey pretty quickly, and when I was done with all of this, I decided, okay, tomorrow I'm going to detox. Time to get fucked the fuck up RIGHT NOW. Who knows? This will probably be the last time.
A part of me laughed at that. Yeah. Right. I had no illusions about myself. I knew I would drink again, and sure enough, while I was in detox, I started planning on drinking when I got out.
So I settled down and emptied the whiskey barrel, and I drank that for the rest of the night until I was nearly comatose. I do remember taking that last drink, though, and it was pretty fucking good. It hit the spot. I was in just the right mood to sleep. Not too fucked up, not short of being fucked up, being just the right amount of fucked up. I was the Baby Bear of being fucked up on booze.
The next day I looked around for the usual hair of the dog, surprised to find none. I'd planned on having another drink before getting picked up, but I hadn't planned well enough. That was fine. I was sure that by the time I got to detox, I'd still be in good shape. Just in time to give me drugs to keep me from withdrawals and possibly seizures.
But I started getting twitchy. I thought maybe the withdrawals kicked in already. By the time I got to detox, I was certain of it even though I scored pretty high on their breathalyzer. I was shaking pretty bad by the time they made me sign the mountain of paperwork. I was so rough that even after they finally gave me Ativan, all I could do was stay in my bed. I didn't want to do anything else.
And so my booze-free life began. I can count on the fingers of one hand how many times I was seriously tempted to drink again. I don't know how I didn't. I don't even know why. I made plans to drink on my birthday last year, which would have made it my second day out, I think. Maybe third. I was going to get food and stop off at Williams Liquors and then have myself a solo birthday party.
When I drove to the liquor store I didn't stop. I didn't even look at the place. Like I said, I don't know why. I don't believe in a higher power, and I'm not in AA. I'm not a twelve-stepper. The only step I've taken is the first one, and I don't have interest in any of the others, especially not Step Two. Who knows? Maybe it's because I expect to drink again someday. I have my list of things that could get me to drink, and it's solid. A lot of it's not likely to happen, but some of it? Maybe.
Anyway. 364 days. I was about to toast to another 364 but, well, you know.
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