Just recently dodged a psychological-but-bordering-the-threshold-of-physical alcoholism that’d been creeping up on me for some time now. I’m glad to’ve recognized the signs of my growing dependence upon the drug, a dependence more real than I had ever imagined I would develop, before it had gotten the best of me. The weekend binges were not the problem; like fuck, that’s been a regular thing for what, five, six years? Minus maybe almost a year somewhere in the middle where I was basically smoking weed every day, and had zero interest in alcohol. Those days (of weed) in my developmental stage – I’m convinced – fucked my cognition for the long haul.
Anyway, my dependence began developing as I made a habit of winding down every night with a beer or three. It didn’t seem like a problem until about nearly two weeks in when I had the idea to maybe not drink tonight, and that’s when I realized how difficult it was to simply not addle myself with booze. Confound it, there was a fridge well stocked with quality brews in this very household. I could easily have that wonderful bubbled cold beverage washing over my tongue and pouring down the well of my throat – there’s nothing more refreshing – paired with that soothing buzz, the tranquilizing mind-lull, the sensation I’ve grown to love, to lust for. I don’t just love it; I’m in love with it. It provides more consistent pleasure than anything or anyone else, with far less consistent regret, pain, confusion, sorrow, guilt, et cetera ad infinitum, than even the most ‘fulfilling’ of ‘lovers.’
Well, once I realized I had to rip myself away from drinking on the weekdays, I found sleeping significantly more difficult. I’ve been clenching my teeth to the point of having goddamn headaches and I don’t know what to do with myself when I come home from work except play guitar or go to sleep… But the former is too loud for my family at that hour, and the latter has become a struggle, as I’ve already explained.
The other night I pulled myself out of bed around midnight to take some ibuprofen for the headache, and some diphenhydramine as a sleep aid. It sucks living in a house of all hardwood floors because when I carefully tiptoe down the creaky staircase in the middle of the night to rummage through the medicine cabinet in the kitchen I can hear the rattling of every pill against their containers reverberate throughout the house and I can tell that it’s audible from upstairs where my parents sleep. Now While in midst medicine-cabinet shakedown by the stove’s gentle overhead lights that I always use to illuminate the kitchen’s witching hour, I wonder if I’ll be accosted come daytime and interrogated as to my late-night spelunking.