I’ve always loved the safety of the internet. The fact that the people who read what you say can’t quite touch you, or reach in and make demands of you.
On a face-to-face basis, I don’t do so well with people. I talk openly about the most inappropriate or personal of topics, but I don’t ever reach for that actual deep connection with another human being unless I’m drunk.
The sad truth about my life is that my favourite pastime is to get drunk alone and blanket myself in that warm place in the middle of the bottle, the place I try so hard to stay in that I end up emptying it and slipping well and truly over the edge and despite the happiness the world gives me, it’s something that will always be there, hovering on the edges, waiting for me.
It’s been a long time since I let myself get here, and although tomorrow is going to taste like regret and the lung I’ve coughed up from the pack of cigarettes I’ve smoked, right now, I wouldn’t give it up for the world.
It’s terrifying to realise that even still, after all these years of fighting against this desire, I can still find myself here, actually missing the lonely nights I spent where Jack Daniels was my only company and the only way I could keep warm.
I only miss it because at the time, it felt like the only person I was hurting was myself. And that was okay, because I enjoyed the pain of it all. Do you have any idea of the freedom that lies inside a bottle?
Lies. Inside a bottle.
It’s harder now, because I know better. That still doesn’t stop me from having just one more glass. It isn’t always like this, though. I can drink without Bri drinking. Even tonight, I’m not the kind of drunk that has caused me to lose friends and damage my loved ones. This is the fun kind of drinking that sees me re-enacting scenes from Beaches for the cats, who just stare at me before yawning and rolling over to lick their bums.
But it doesn’t take long.. and the memories will wash all over me, the reasons I slipped inside a bottle all those years ago. We all have them and we all find our own ways of dealing with them. Or not dealing.
It’s okay, they all come out in the wash eventually. For now, I’ll exorcise them with another glass of wine and a visit to my favourite bands; the dudes who kept me company when even Jack had made me miserable.
This is a maudlin-sounding post, but it’s really a celebration of the life that alcohol gives me, when I don’t let it steal my own.
It’s just the slipperiest of slopes and I’ve never been very coordinated.