I got drunk Saturday afternoon. Three twenty-four ounce cans of Old Milwaukee’s Best Ice Beer. That’s what it took to black out, scream at and terrify my wife and daughter, throw up repeatedly and piss the bed. Sunday was spent in the basement on the guest bed, which will once again become my regular bed, which is what I deserve, as I can’t seem to find a place in this world that doesn’t make me want to break down and cry. Two and a half years down the toilet.
It’s not a drinking disease; it’s a thinking disease. And even though I read from the Twenty-Four Hours a Day book Saturday morning, and went to a ten a.m. meeting, if I don’t truly engage in this program, what’s any of it matter? I can’t recall the last time I called my sponsor, or met with another alcoholic outside of a meeting. Doing the bare minimum, that is, not drinking, can only last for so long. If at the end of the day I’m still miserable, depressed and broken, and simply waiting for everything to fall apart (marriage, child, work, family, friends), it’s extremely difficult to not want to tear everything down myself, just to feel like I have some control, just to confirm that I was right all along, and that I’m not worthy of a normal existence: a loving wife, a wonderful daughter, a steady job, family or friends.
I’m angry that I can’t be happy. I blame others, warp the thoughts and beliefs in my head until it’s everyone else’s fault, and close myself off from everyone and everything. Truth be told, and this is it: I hate myself. Pure, straight-up hatred. Therefore, whatever’s in my life, I’m not worthy of. I’ve lost all ability to interact with those I love in a positive manner. I want it to be done, to be over, to be finished. If I’m only going to destroy what’s around me, better to cut off all ties with those I love than force them to watch my descent into madness.
Ironically enough, tonight’s meeting is with my home group, the people who saw me come in the doors over four years ago, get sober for a year, slip, get sober for two and a half years, and now tonight again get to listen to me admit my failings. Yes, it was only one day, and I have no ambition to start-up again, but it still points out that I continue to be a walking-talking depressive that refuses to accept any happiness in my life, simply because I feel I don’t deserve it. Saturday’s relapse is a perfect example of that.
Step One: we admitted we were powerless over alcohol – that our lives had become unmanageable.