I’d hate myself, but that would lead to a depression that would lead to a willingness to end my life, and that shouldn’t be, cause if that happens I can’t drink anymore. Who am I kidding? I loathe myself.
I walk down the road knowing that I shouldn’t have another drink, but the only thing I wanna do is have another drink. I want to chug it. I want it to hit my brain so hard and make me forget I actually have one.
I go into the shop and buy my poison. It’s usually the type that gets me drunk as fast as possible. I pay and step out of the shop to drink it as soon as I can. This is my goal right now: getting even more intoxicated. It makes me feel “free”.
I know I shouldn’t. I want to anyway. The fact that I shouldn’t makes me want to do it even more. I drink large chugs of it, and feel my body resist. I feel the need to throw up. I fight it. I swallow it all, and force it down with determination. What a fucking overachiever. Judge me as much as you can, I’ve passed the verdict a long time ago.
Guilty as charged: first degree alcoholic, someone who would go to inexplicable lengths to have their next fix of vodka, tequila, rum, or whatever, anything, fucking anything. Wine would even do, at least immense amounts of it, but it would do… something to shut this voice up.
Am I monster? I probably am. I become one every single time I black out. Each time there’s that lack of self-control it’s a fucking blessing and the biggest curse. It’s a blessing because you can finally let out all those things that you had to keep in, it’s a curse cause…need I explain that part?
I hate myself today. I hated myself yesterday, and I knew it was cause of all the anxiety and distress from drinking. The hangover is full of uncontrollable emotions. Sometimes it gives you the deepest sadness you could experience for nothing. And that is what I loved and hated the most: experiencing something profound and exhilarating for no reason what-so-fucking-ever. What a fucking poet.
I tell myself time and time again that I’m gonna quit. After so many stupid fights, arguments, embarrassments, humiliations, one would think that quitting would become inevitable. One could never be more wrong.
There is no way to understand the mind of the hopeless alcoholic unless you are or were one yourself. And if you are, no one could ever possibly envy you. You’re on your own. It’s one of the most isolating and loneliest experiences. God help you. In any case, after enough drinks, God either doesn’t exist, or he’s your only friend.