Well. Fuck.
I suppose written self-reflection reliably follows drunken self-sabotage. I wonder if I’ll ever journal much else than the consequences of my drinking.
Suzi came home to find me passed out on the floor Tuesday morning. She has been at her mother’s for the past three days. I have been on a bender for the past three days. I had my last drink sometime before midnight on new years eve. I don’t know how long I will go without drinking this time. A few weeks. Maybe longer. I’m so tired of finding myself back here.
Each incident has been less severe than the last. The last time, Suzi came home to a huge mess … beer spilled all over the front porch, me spilled all over the floor surrounded in bottles. This time, she just found me passed out with Satan [my German Shepherd] on the floor. There was no mess, but it must have been obvious I was hammered. I don’t know that this means anything, except that it may be less cluttered if she finds me dead one day.
The drinking has been compartmentalized fairly neatly. With few exceptions, I drank once a week, and not at all if I had exams. However, my customary quantity was a fifth or some equivalent in a combination of beer and whiskey. I often worried of the cumulative effect on my health, but that did little to disrupt the habit.
I don’t want to hurt Suzi. And it’s obvious that I also do not want to quit drinking. I was functioning. I was surviving. I remember very clearly how much pain I was in after nearly two years of sobriety. I don’t want to be a slave to my addiction, no matter how well managed, but it’s not easy to welcome that profound pain and emptiness back into my life either.
Regardless, I know for certain that I do not want to be dishonest. It was tearing me apart. I felt like I had zero integrity, regardless of how well I was doing in other aspects of my life, including developing a stronger bond with my family (which is now awash).
I don’t want to make this entry again.
