In 2012 (emphasis added with consent):
To make decisions sober is powerful. I must focus on this. I thought, “I would like to text [man’s name who I am flirting with] that I am looking forward to seeing him, and relished in the fact that I won’t have to worry in the morning about what I drunkenly thought was appropriate.”
I hate that.
Without fail, I wake up, try to remember how I got to bed, try to piece together what I did the night before, and search for my phone to see who I texted what pathetic thing to the night before.
I HATE that.
I must state that I very badly want to go do shots of vodka and chase them with beer.
I suppose whoever reads this might be curious why I want THAT so badly. Well, now — it is a habit. It calms me. It helps me pass out. Lately, I feel the need to pass out. I can’t bear NOT passing out. My mind automatically goes to bad places. Places where I am rejected, unwelcome, not good enough, or helpless. I am a very anxious person. I know how much I am limiting myself by succumbing to alcohol. I could be doing good things with the time/brain cells/etc. that drown in alcohol every night.
I similarly know that it is not healthy on a physical level, and the longer I wait to address it the more danger I am in. I think sometimes that I will end up tragically dead.
But it’s just a drinking problem. I’m just an alcoholic. When I die from this people will say, “[my name] was an alcoholic.” And it will be left there. As if that is enough. As if that explains who I am or ever was or would only be remembered as again.
I think that the people who criticize Michael Jackson and Heath Ledger for their use of drugs to induce sleep are STUPID or LUCKY. These people can only be one or the other. Because until you are here, begging for sleep at 3:00 A.M. to escape the PURE aloneness of your thoughts — YOU WON’T GET IT.
You would think muscle relaxers would be sufficient to knock me out for the night. Nope. I’m fucked.
I can’t take it. All I can think about is the pain. And how everybody leaves. And how I’m worthless.
I guess I don’t always know who I am since I am constantly trying to discern if I am behaving the “right” way. I do know for a fact that I am ultra-sensitive.
Sometimes I just sit still and think about all of the moving parts I have to worry about. It can be immobilizing. I explain this to my psychiatrist as anxiety, but everyone is anxious, so no one really cares. I think about all the people going through such horrific things and it’s like, oh, poor me, I’m anxious.
I keep thinking, “Someday, I will be thin, and awesome, and everyone will love me.” And then I think, that day was when I was 18, and I was cutting myself.
I suppose I am an enormous fool. I have built what I have and where I am, and I have to deal with that. But I don’t want to anymore. It is very hard for me to truly accept the motions I go through every day as my life. And when I spend time with other people who I imagine to have REAL lives (as opposed to this bullshit) I get even more depressed.
I think sometimes I feel like drinking is the only thing that I have that never lets me down. But I know I have to be doing serious damage to my brain and body. How could I not be, drinking in excess by every standard every night? And no one is going to (or going to be able to) fix it but me.
There are many reasons to stop. But I also need to share what it is like for me. Remember the desperation for shots of vodka?
It gets to be around 10:00 P.M. or 11:00 P.M. and I start to dread consciousness. The idea that I will be my fully mentally aware self any longer at that time of day/night is more than I want to bear. Because consciousness hurts. And unconsciousness mends, and soothes, and takes over so I don’t have to think like my aware self any longer.
And so I get my drinks ready. And I feel such indescribable relief just knowing I’m done for the day because they’re going to take care of everything until I pass out. You see, part of this is about what I don’t have, and much of it is about what I have lost.
So I start to drink. I do not enjoy this part. It is nothing like drinking with friends at a party where you start to feel buzzed and you are happily giggling together. Alone, each sip is meant to medicate, and nothing more. I pour about 2-4 ounces of hard liquor (40% abv or higher) and chug it. I hate how it tastes so I chase it with beer.
I LOVE beer. But it is a tool when I drink alone, not a beverage. It merely allows me to choke down the liquor that I need and hate. The minutes after I ingest it are remarkable. Before I can even really feel its effect on me I am at peace for the first time all day. I know what comes next. And then it kicks in. And everything is immediately bearable.
The next step is needing more, and quickly. It doesn’t matter if I’m already drunk, falling down, slurring my words. I require more. And more. And more. At that point I have to just hope I get to bed without falling down the stairs or into the bathtub (again) pulling down the curtain and rod and turning my light out before I black out.
Then the morning comes. Amazingly. Surprisingly. And I always feel beyond awful. And I swear I will never do that to my body again because it feels so so bad. Like eight hammers are knocking on your skull and your stomach couldn’t be more disgusting and everything is too loud and too bright and too much.
And then I go through my day. And consciousness is painful. And then it is between 10:00 P.M. and 11:00 P.M. again.