The Clamor Was Insufficient.
I remember quite vividly the day that I finally did exactly what I wanted to do.
I prepared on a Friday by picking up a carton of cigarettes and two cases of Natural Light beer. (“Light” because I have never not been on a diet.)
I rolled out of bed and changed it into a sofa. I lit a cigarette, guzzled some Diet Coke, then settled down with a beer to watch Pee Wee’s Playhouse and My Little Pony.
My dream of drinking with zero interference from the outside world was finally coming true.
It was raining outside, so I stayed inside blasting music, thrilled to choose whatever songs moved me. Judas Priest‘s Hell Bent for Leather seemed like a good way to start a Saturday. By mid-afternoon, I’d run through AC/DC, Donny Osmond, John Schneider, The Carpenters and Ten Years After.
I drank with purpose; I wanted to inject the alcohol directly into my soul. I drank and drank and drank.
As the sun started to set, the music stopped making me happy. I felt – quite suddenly – extremely and unbearably lonely, and didn’t know how to handle that loneliness.
I turned on the television – blah blah blah emitted from the tinny speaker. The music continued to blast. When I realized the people-sounds weren’t enough to quell the creeping sadness, I looked for other things to fill the silence. I turned on the water in the bathtub – PSHHHH! – loud, but not enough.
Kitty raced to her spot on top of the refrigerator.
I turned on the water in the bathroom sink. I flushed the toilet. I turned on the water in the kitchen sink. I turned on the microwave – empty – for 30 minutes.
The clamor was insufficient.
I made a circle out of ashtrays on the floor. It’s amazing how many ashtrays I had, considering I’d never purchased one. I sat cross-legged with my beer in the center of my stolen ashtrays. I ashed my cigarette in every ashtray, then lit another one. I started burning holes in the carpet next to each ashtray, just because I could. I put out my cigarette in the carpet and lit another one.
The stereo blasted. With the TV, the rushing water and the microwave, my apartment blared like a distress signal to another planet.
I held my breath, trying to soak in the external influences. This made me cough.
Suddenly I knew what I needed to do.
I raced into the bathroom and looked into the mirror. And there I was, after a full day of drunken partying my way, with the same dead eyes I saw in every bar bathroom.
I turned off the water in the sink and the tub. I turned off everything in the kitchen. I toppled the ashtrays and ground the ashes into the carpet, destroyed by my pathetic attempt at self-care. I turned off the TV and put a new album on the stereo.
This time: Yaz. An appropriately chaotic song called I Before E.
I flopped onto the floor, into the ash, and curled into a fetal position, every bit as dead inside as I’d felt every previous drunken day. I couldn’t even cry. I felt lost and abandoned and completely hopeless.
Worst of all, I was utterly alone.
I drank another beer anyway, then another. I lit another cigarette and ashed it onto the floor. I drank and smoked and drank some more until I passed out on my face without so much as a pillow.
I had created my dream day and I hadn’t fixed anything.
I was still me.