how it ends.
I want to write this out in gory detail and bookmark it if I am ever, ever, ever tempted to drink again. From where I sit this morning, it is impossible to imagine ever wanting to touch the stuff again in my life, but I know this beast all too well now and I know how I start to romanticize it after a little time goes by. If you're triggered by drinking details, read no further.
It seemed so harmless last Thursday...just a pint with friends, and my favorite beer was on tap. I would only have one or two and then I could quit for real. It would be a better send-off to my old buddy alcohol to have a really nice beer than that cheap awful wine I put away when I last quit a couple of weeks ago. Or was it the straight vodka from the back of the freezer? Or was that the time I quit before that? I can't seem to remember. Anyway, yeah, I was driving so I couldn't really drink, it would be fine. Just a pint out with friends, like normal people.
Halfway through the second pint I start feeling good but also twitchy about the logistics of the evening: I'm obviously going to need more, a lot more. I need to secure an infinite supply to get me through the night. How am I going to only have two all night? That's just ridiculous. By the end of the second glass I have a solid plan: I'll say my goodbyes early and then pick up a six pack on my way home. Just this one last time. Oh, okay, one more pint for the road, if you're buying!
I probably shouldn't be driving after that third pint, I should have had some food and waited a bit, but I had to leave as soon as I could...I couldn't sacrifice my buzz by waiting around and, what, drinking water? Is that what people do? Whatever. I am at the service of the buzz, nothing else matters. I swerve a little and overcorrect, and my heart races for a minute. Whew! This is stressful! That seals the deal--I am definitely going to need a beer when I get home.
I pick up the beer. The cashier asks if I need a bag and when I say no, she laughs and says "well, don't start drinking it in the parking lot!" I'm hit with a wave of shame and guilt. I get home and the shame is lifted as I pull out the bottle. The feeling of security and well-being I have when I pop open that first one is so profound--and there are five more of them waiting for me! I feel relaxed for the first time.
I start watching mindless TV, ignoring the overdue work project I desperately need to work on. As I go to the fridge to open the third bottle, I am hit by a new wave of anxiety--this totally isn't going to be enough for the night. But I'm definitely too sloshed to drive now. What am I going to do? I decide to just keep drinking and reevaluate my options when I'm out of beer.
My mom always has a few bottles of chardonnay in the fridge, and it's not my favorite but what's a girl to do? I'll just have to replace it before she notices it's missing. I pop it open and only make it through one glass before I pass out fully dressed on the couch.
It's 4am and I feel like I have been hit by a truck. There's not enough water in the world to relieve my encompassing thirst. I pour the rest of the chardonnay down the drain and it smells so toxic and awful I almost pass out. Man, I really need to quit. This is out of control. I try to go back to sleep, and can't. I realize I haven't eaten in a long time, so I go out to grab some breakfast. I feel a terrible wave of stress about my unfinished work, and the realization that I am going to be in no shape to write today so hungover. At the store, I find myself walking over to get a six pack of beer before I even know what is happening. Well, okay, yeah, that makes sense. I'll feel better if I have some beer. Just to get through the day.
And here I am, three days later. I've spent the morning checking my sent text messages and call log and facebook to determine the damage from last night and try to piece everything together. I neglected to feed the cats and am not sure if I took the dog out--probably not. I passed out in the middle of a conversation with a friend. I spilled wine on the couch. I had worked through all the chardonnay in the house so I was onto old bottles of red, awful syrupy merlot. So it's a good stain, too. I am out of breath and sick to my stomach, and my head is pounding and my eyes can't focus very well. I finished no work all weekend and I've really jeopardized my job. I am so ashamed of what I have done to my body and mind and how far I have gone down this road. I think about my alcoholic father when he was my age and how terrified I always was of becoming like him.
The next time I start fantasizing about that pint, I want to remember: this is how it ends. It never ends any other way. It is never, ever safe for me to drink. Not just "one," not just a beer with friends. Never. Nothing, ever again.