I wish I had a drink right now.
It is really late, and my bed called me a long time ago. When my light was turned off, and the pillow excepted my head for dream ready position, my mind would not shut down. My own mind kept calling me a loser.
How is that for not so sane?
I used to get that a lot back in the days when my wayward teenage years were coming to a end and the pressures of the real world started closing in. I ended up paying for my rent while in school by being a relief DJ at a local night club and there i met with, what I believe, is everyone's starter booze: Southern Comfort.
I shacked up with Southern Comfort for about six months before moving onto what would become my signature alcohol, the one that nearly cost me my education, friends, and my very sanity. Which, to say the last was pretty much a lie.
My sanity was held in check by the cold, refreshing drinks that I would mire myself in once I retreated to the safety of my home and behind closed doors where no prying eyes could see. The vodka that I spent consuming for the next year slowly, and surely, got out of control. Pretty soon it wasn't so much about the drinking, it was the forgetting. There was so much to forget, so little money in the world to purchase the ultimate forget solution.
When I stumbled out of that clear liquid fog, things were okay. I was one suicide attempt and three boyfriends to the negative, but I had managed to get out relatively fine. There were copious amounts of AA meetings that I made myself go through, and I found that there really were circles of healing out there. I ditched the booze for Coke, everyone's favorite soda, and went on my way. That was four years ago now.
The voices were something that pretty much were there constantly. OF course, they weren't voices like crazy people think they heard. I didn't hear Jesus speak of love, or Ronald McDonald speak of fries, or Hunter S. Thompson rave about his life. The voices (voice, if you want to get technical), was the voice that sat on the sidelines and predicted doom. Things from the dark moment inb life where I lost control gradually moved on in to a dim region of my mind, and the voice, the ultimate mimic of life, left with it.
Did I drink to escape? Yup, pretty much. Things got better when I was out on my own, living life, out of the closet, etc, etc...I won't bore you with details.
Tonight, those voices came back. I wrote about six pages about it in my livejournal, but still the fire that is burning needs to still be addressed. It scares me to hear that faint, phantom echo of 'loser' and feel the fresh, parched affect of needing a drink. I want it all to get better, but I don't know if it will.