I Felt … Normal.
My days had no purpose after college. While many people went on to find careers, create families and build lives for themselves, I started my adult life with no ambition, no aspirations and no passions.
I wanted to rebel but no longer knew against what I was rebelling.
Even Larry was working.
I would wake up knowing: I am worthless. I hurt everyone I love. I have no purpose.
Then I’d light a cigarette, alone, in that dark bed in the Pitcairn Hotel and try not to think about it.
My solution was to drink as quickly and as much as possible.
I’d walk out of my dark apartment building and become instantly blinded by the light outside. I never knew what time it was, but the sun was always shining too brightly. I’d walk the 20 yards to Barry’s bar and step inside where I felt more comfortable in the dark.
Without my asking, Barry would get me a Miller Light. That’s what Larry always wanted, so that’s what I always got.
I’d crack the can carefully, so as not to spill any, and tilt the glass toward the can so I wouldn’t get too much foam. It was important to preserve every drop of the golden liquid, especially the first one.
My first sip tasted like the inside of someone’s shoe. I aimed for the back of my throat, trying to spare my taste buds, holding my breath as I gulped down as much as I could.
Within seconds, that familiar feeling returned: a tiny buzzing right in the front of my brain. An overwhelming calm. This feeling, this first-sip feeling, was the feeling I constantly craved.
For a few glorious seconds, I felt like I was exactly where I belonged in the world, like everything was okay, like my life was complete and whole and beautiful. I felt … normal.
This was not a feeling I ever had sober.
To keep the feeling going, I’d take another sip. Already the taste wasn’t as bad. Already it made sense to me, why I was doing this.
The second sip wasn’t quite as powerful though, and the buzzing in my head didn’t stay pleasant. I’d down the whole beer as fast as I could, and the calm vanished.
So I’d down another. And another.
At three beers, I became happy. I felt content and excited and brave. I felt smart and beautiful and strong. At three beers, the world was miraculous, and I fit right in.
I had it down to an art. At three beers, I was perfect.
But after three beers, I couldn’t stop. I wanted that feeling to continue, so I tried to drink in measured amounts, willing it to stay. But halfway through the fourth beer, it was already too late.
At beer four, everything vanished: the calm, the contentedness, the elated enthusiasm for life. The buzz became a sloshing. The peace became confusion. The enthusiasm became desperation.
I wanted the good feelings back, and I knew I’d gotten them from drinking, so I drank more.
Every beer was part of a search. Every beer, every day, all day long. I woke up trying to ignore my worthlessness. And I felt consistently more empty as I drank, trying to feel complete.
I’d reach outside of myself after three beers: music, men, cocaine, schnapps, sex – anything my imagination (limited by booze) would conjure. I just wanted to feel good all the time.
Eventually, I would just pass out. And the cycle would start again the next day.