It Wasn’t a Decision.
It was mere moments before my life became an alcoholic hell again.
I woke up with a hangover that didn’t feel comfortable so much as it felt familiar.
Dying of thirst, I opened a two-liter of Diet Coke and stuck my head under the faucet for water. My head was pounding, my eyes wouldn’t open all the way, my hair was stuck to the side of my face, my head was foggy and broken.
I went into the bathroom and dry-heaved into the toilet. I laid my face on the floor and hoped the cool of the tiles would ease some of my discomfort. I tried to fall asleep on the floor but I couldn’t.
“Fuck,” I murmured under my breath. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” I couldn’t think of another word. I couldn’t feel a single thing. I knew only that I knew how to handle this feeling – this unbearable, agonizing sickness that had become a part of my daily life for so many years.
The only way to handle this feeling was to drink more.
It wasn’t a conscious thought. It wasn’t an I’m-gonna-drink-again consideration. It wasn’t a decision.
My reasoning – if it can be called “reason” – was simple. I thought: I hurt. I need alcohol.
There was simply no room in my head for anything else.
I smoked cigarettes in my bed and waited.
Kitty leapt into the bed with me, reminding me that she existed. I got up and fed the cat, cleaned out her bowls, opened the window so she could sit on the sill.
I crawled back into my bed.
Eventually I brushed my teeth. I still had yesterday’s clothes on, but I had to go. This time, for sure I was going to get a six-pack – just a six-pack – and my hangover would dissipate. I went to the store and bought a 12-pack.
I drank one as soon as I got home, and I felt normal again.
After three cans, I walked out the door. I went back to the bar down the street, but it was closed.
It was Sunday.
I had to find an open bar. I wandered the streets of Swissvale until I found one, and I went inside. It was empty, except for me and one other person. I pretended to be Larry and did the little head-nod, but I didn’t feel confident. I didn’t like that bar.
It was too bright. I stayed anyway, drinking another couple of drinks before I decided to call Gregg from the payphone on the wall.
“Meet me at the bar on the corner!” I slurred. “I’ll buy you a drink!”
Gregg didn’t ask why I was drinking, or where the bar might be. Knowing our little town as well as he did, he just showed up. We picked up right where we’d left off, all-night party buddies, except without the marijuana.
When the marijuana returned about a week later, I didn’t stop drinking.
Drinking was way, way more fun than I had remembered. I would never make the mistake of quitting something so wonderful again.
The shooting star and my stolid resolve to stay sober became a distant memory.