I would have really thought the entry I made on February 29 of this year would have described the absolute worst experience I’ve had with alcohol. This is an excerpt from that journal entry.
Every single time, I say that is the worst I’ve ever felt. I say that one day someone is going to find me dead. And I mean it each time. Not because I have forgotten how bad it was the time before, but because it really is worse each time. I wonder how close I pushed it this time. I cracked a liter of Evan Williams just as a horrible hangover was coming on and managed to finish almost all of it in a night. I can’t romanticize it anymore. I can’t pretend this will not happen again. It will. And it will be worse. I don’t ever want to feel the way I did the other night. And if I ever one up it, I very well could kill myself
I had to be even closer to accidentally killing myself this time. I don’t know how many pints of vodka I managed to polish of between Wednesday and Friday (26 – 28). Six … maybe seven. The fallout was definitely worse than in February. The gastric pain was less, but I had a persistent cold sweat for about 48 hours, I kept fading in and out of consciousness, unable to stay asleep or awake, my face was flushed and red until this morning, I was shitting bile until this morning, I still have diarrhea, and I still have some stomach pain. I discovered vodka does not give me the hangovers that whiskey does and I decided to see how far I could push it. I probably should have went to the hospital, but I was afraid of putting that into the system of a facility I may wish to work at.
Just before Labor Day I was feeling great and had no particular need to drink even though it had been five weeks or better. I’m going to review my entire journal, focusing on that time period in particular, to perhaps gain some insight to why I would fuck up so badly when things were going well. There was no real precipitating factor this time either. I was a little stressed about not getting any hours for the week, but I have so many coming up in November, it will be fine. Plus, I actually missed a few work opportunities while completely incapacitated. It is also worth noting that Suzi found an empty bottle of vodka downstairs. She didn’t threaten to leave this time, but I didn’t plan on stopping her if she did (though I may have ultimately changed my mind).
The difference this time around, and it is a huge difference, is that I’m finally seeking help. TJ turned me on to the SMART rehabilitation system. I initiated myself into their online community, I will attend my first local meeting tomorrow, and I have an appointment scheduled with a therapist next Friday.
Realistically, it is possible I will have another relapse. I do not say this to be permissive of the possibility … I just have to know that it is a possibility. And if it happens, I have to attack recovery all the harder. I told Suzi today that recovery simply has to be something I do now, like lifting. It doesn’t ever end, it has to remain an integral part of my life.
Recover; don’t recover. Drink; don’t drink. Live; don’t live. None of these polarities can exist without their complement. It is all good, even when it is all horrible.
In my experience, pushing alcohol away is part of the cause of drinking. The hangover (naming it as such, dreading it), feeling shame and embarrassment, and fearing the revelation of my failings, my sins, and my shame, are all a part of it.
I once admitted to a wise man that the hangover from heavy drinking was a barrier to my enjoyment of it. (It did not stop me from doing it; it was just another layer of self-admonition). He laughed and said, “That’s part of it!” before walking off to his physics class carrying what must have been a gallon of coffee in the biggest cup I’ve ever seen. I envied him that cup. And the guts to embrace the whole of it, the shittiness of it, the irony of it.
There is only one task before you. Love the one who is drinking, the one who is sober, the one who is self-loathing and in despair. He is all of us. And he is no one. THAT WHICH IS does not have a name; let us call it “Mike.”