I want a drink terribly. I can’t remember ever wanting one so badly, and this is the thing: when I say “a drink”, I mean enough to pass out. I never wondered whether or not I was an alcoholic until some time this past year. I went through long periods of getting shit-faced every night. And on the nights that I made a conscious decision not to get crazy drunk, I’d make up an excuse to do it.
My mother is a recovering alcoholic, so is my grandmother, so is my grandfather, and I suspect my father is an alcoholic. I’m beginning to wonder whether or not I am. I don’t like the idea at all. I mean, why do I want to drink so badly? Nothing is terribly wrong. I’m sure it’s not withdrawal or any semblance of that, because I haven’t had a drink in over a month. And from what I’ve read, anyway, going through alcohol withdrawal is basically a hangover. That may be incorrect, but that’s beside the point.
Alcohol is a bizarre thing for me. When I drink excessively, part of my brain classifies it as self-punishment. For what, I don’t know. And I like that — self-punishment, that is — but maybe like is the wrong word. It feels simultaneously good and bad; good because I feel like I deserve it, bad because of the consequences. I self-punish in strange ways. I don’t cut, or ram my head into walls, or burn myself or anything like that. I smoke so much that I know I’ll get sick, I drink so much that I know I’ll get sick, and I choose hard paths to follow in life, justifying my decisions by saying to myself “It’s better to learn things the hard way.” I regret it all later, too. For Christ’s sake, I don’t have a job, I’m a drop-out, and I’m not doing anything useful. I seem to sabotage everything I set out to do. Or not do. Or whatever.
Part of this, I’m sure, has something to do with my attachment to feeling, which is strange, considering how many people cite alcohol as a way to feel numb. I guess I’m talking about choosing hard paths, and not making any terrible effort to make myself happier. I’d rather do everything the hard, ragged, brutal way — experience terrible soul-wrenching lows and mind-blowing highs. I starve myself, because I know it’ll make eating (when it happens) that much more satisfying. I let myself get into these terribly sad, dark periods, knowing that the happy ones will be so much more profound. I’d rather end up homeless and starving than stuck in a 9-5. At least that’s how I feel now. I’ve relinquished myself to Fate, or at least what I consider fate; this very specific hard-to-define thing that isn’t what it seems. I take big risks with my decisions, and acknowledge the potentially bad outcome, and embrace it, for the sake of growing and learning and experiencing.
I totally forgot how any of this ties into alcoholism, I kind of just let my mind wander. Anyway, that’s it for my probably depressing tangent. If you read all of this, I’m actually sorry. Maybe this is too much to share. I’m really not in a bad mood at all. It’s just late, I haven’t slept, and sleep-deprivation makes my head go crazy with thoughts.
