Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
So Weeps the Willow - 5. Sobriety - Day 4
Poor Jake just isn't getting any visits, or is he?
Day 4
I slept fitfully again this past night, after going over to Nats and barely passing by the bar. (Okay, I’m picking up where I left off last night, so sue me! Ha! Since no one is reading this, the counter has only moved one hit more, so -- blows a raspberry). I tossed and turned, finally falling asleep early this morning about five o’clock or so. Now I’m awake at eleven, which means I only got six hours of sleep and my head hurts and my legs ache.
I thought when I quit drinking I’d feel better. So far, I just feel worse. My brain is arguing I should give in and have a couple of cocktails before work. I will confess the thought isn’t completely alien to me. I have, on occasion, had a couple of drinks before work. Something stopped me though.
I got a call from my mom. She is actually the one who woke me up. Usually, it’s late afternoon following her nap when she calls. This morning was different, well not really. She was slurring her words. There was a boozy quality to her intonation. My mother likes her cocktails too. I guess I inherited that from her.
Mom called to ask for money. She’s short on her rent. I told her last time I was tapped out. I wasn’t paying for her visits to the Indian casinos any longer. We argued. Then, as usual, I relented. I can’t say no to the woman who gave me birth and is crying to me on the phone. I don’t have a lot extra, but her studio apartment’s rent is only about $450, so I can spare that. I told her I’d write the landlord a check.
I’m not giving her the money. I may be a drunken loser, but I’m not completely stupid.
Enough of that. Like I said, I’m feeling really sore today. Sure, my legs but also my back and shoulders as well. I have been hitting the gym pretty heavy. I hate making excuses though. I read a little more about the detox process before I went to sleep. There are such horrible changes while drying out. I’m really experiencing each and every one of them. I’m dehydrated all the time, sore, achy, my head hurts, I can’t sleep. I feel such anxiety and this sense of dread. It’s awful.
I’m worried. What if I wake up tomorrow with the delirium tremens and my heart fails? I should see a doctor. I really should. This is so hard to do alone. Maybe I should try going to a meeting.
My mom tried AA and she said it was for weirdos and Bible bangers. I don’t want any head trips or brainwashing, but then, Mom never got sober. She may not be the best source of advice.
I don’t think groups are for me either, to be honest. Maybe after work tonight, Nats and I can talk. I feel if I can get stuff out of me; I’ll feel better. Talking to her the other night made all the difference. She told me things, personal things, and I admitted to some pretty fucked up things. I guess Nats gets me, at least I think so, almost as much as Eddie did. Eddies does get me. They are both important, but right now I need her more.
Writing this down has helped. My heart isn’t pounding quite so hard. My pulse isn’t racing now. I’m breathing more calmly. I’m not done with today’s writing. I’ll come back to you, lone reader. I need to eat breakfast, go to the gym, and maybe see if there’s a meeting around here somewhere. It’s worth a try.
***
I chickened out. I found a meeting listed on the local AA chapter website at a place around the corner at 2 pm. I went to the church, even walked through the front door into the hall, looked at the sign pointing down into the basement announcing the meeting, and turned around and left.
I stood outside the building and watched as people came and entered the building. They looked normal. I’m not sure what I expected given my mother’s description and the impression I generally have of alcoholics. I guess I was surprised none of them were carrying Bibles or dealing with broken limbs from car accidents. When I think of alcoholics, I think of drunk driving. I see homeless people. I envision sadness, depression, and furtiveness.
Mom told me they are filled with righteous indignation. She found the meetings didn’t help. Yeah, then I remember her slurred message, and it makes me scared.
I guess I think of myself skulking around a meeting like I’m a spy and the CIA is out to get me. I feel depressed, hurt, and overall anxiety, which, given what I read last night seems about right. I should be feeling a sense of loss, though I don’t, not really.
That’s when I saw the guy walk in. I almost followed him in, and then stopped because I knew him, or someone like him. Let’s say, because he looked just like someone I know. As the song says, ‘now somebody that I used to know’. Maybe, it had been him. Maybe, I’d have gone to the meeting, and we talked and it would have been okay. Perhaps knowing he was as wounded as I am would have made the difference.
Where did that come from? There are times I’m reading back my words, and my confessions are a little crazed, except for one thing. I do believe at times going over things is helpful. Maybe it lets me process the stress, find balanced chemical reactions in my brain. I know this is why talk therapy works. If I find the right mix of epinephrine and norepinephrine, it’s calming. I feel better. That’s the key to mental help, at least according to the latest medical science and psychological studies.
Fuck. This is sounding especially insane.
I’m glad no one is reading this now because I’m kind of freaked out. Writing about my fears about addiction felt right and yet, I don’t know why I wrote it, or why I’m so scared. Some people tell me that I‘m just like my mother. Maybe that’s what freaks me out. But, I’m not. Christ, that’s ridiculous. How could I be like her?
Oh God, I’m like one of those tormented types, only I’m not artistic. I’m just me. I like…what do I like? I guess I like figuring things out. Sometimes I play a game at work. I tried to get Nats or Carlos to play it with me. They think I’m a psycho, which I may be. Here’s the game.
I see a person, or a group of people, and I start to make up a story about why they are behaving the way they are. Not their life story or anything crazy like that. I just try to figure out from their behavior what is going on with them. It’s just a game, and I’m right more than not.
I usually chat with them and people like to tell their stories. One couple was out for their anniversary, which I figured out because they were trying so hard. Another couple was obviously having an affair because both of them hid their wedding rings when I approached. Later that month, I saw the guy with another woman and two kids who were obviously his. I’m good at figuring these things out.
So why don’t I do more of it?
Maybe I will.
I have to talk to someone. I’m going insane. I really am.
- 41
- 5
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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