Its 7:00pm and everyone is promptly gathered and in place around our dining room table.
We all join hands and bow our heads in silence as my mother asks me to say our family prayer.
I’ m against repetitive prayer as a means to developing a true relationship with God, no matter whom that God may or may not be, but our family prayer is different.
I wrote it several years prior to capture the essence of our family values and character; to essentially serve as a constant reminder of everything that we must be grateful for.
It’ s Thanksgiving Day and smiles are all around. My father tells his common silly jokes as the rest of the family enjoys the wonderful meal that my mother has prepared.
This had to have been ten years ago and it’ s still a recurring nightmare; a fucking repression.
I can’t get the images and pictures out of my head as I ravish thru my house in a non-destructive fashion with the intent of destruction lingering all awhile.
I pace back and forth looking for some sort of calming effect. I splash water into my face and with my harsh exhale send a mist across the dark marble counter top.
I’ve smoked at least two packs of cigarettes since I’ve returned home from work and I am not sure I can stand another.
Cessation is taking a non-controllable toll on my body, and cold sweats become its apparent pleading for me to end the torture.
There’ s a quick fix to this problem but I can’ t give in. The doctor of psychology tells me to do it, but I will not; I have to fucking fight.
I haven’ t had a drink for two days now and I’ m doing any and everything to keep myself busy.
My life is changing for the better, but it’ s slow and it’ s unbelievably difficult. God only knows how hard I fucking struggle.
I try writing a little, the way that I used to. I listen to music and watch movies that once either made me laugh or inspired me, but now seem to one way or another always take me back to where I don’t want to go.
I’m trying so hard to clear my head and to stay on track, but my mind is constantly occupied by things that alcohol usually diminishes.
I’ m sweating yet I’ m constantly chilled. I tell myself that one drink will help me to relax. Maybe just have a beer and watch a movie the doctor will say.
I tell myself that I can stop after one or even a couple. I tell myself that will-power and mindset can overcome my desire for more, but I know that’ s a false conception.
If I start, I will not stop. One is too many and one thousand is not enough. I can’ t think of anything more pathetic.
If I were coaxed I would rationalize. I would talk to the doctor of psychology and he would tell me that it’ s a disease and that it’ s not my fault.
He would tell me to drink and to enjoy. He’ ll say that life is short and I should do what I enjoy doing.
I’ m still roaming the house looking for that calming effect. I try to spin the disease and begin writing a novel entitled “30 some days to Rehabilitation, a memoir of an Addict”, but everything continuously becomes hypocritical and my words of inspiration and encouragement of will-power to overcome and become your own hero are just a disservice to anyone truly suffering from the disease.
I start by giving a pretense of my initial thoughts and then the acknowledgement of learning that you have to embrace the disease, but until I actually cross the bridge and determine that I will never drink again the writing is seemingly a start to just a lost cause.
I’ve sat in AA and I hear people that have been in the program and sober for 20 years or so.
They tell me….They have the nerve to tell me that the miracle for them is not that they don’ t drink anymore; the miracle is that they don’ t want to.
Why the fuck are you still coming to AA? Talk about a disservice to others. Tell me how hard it is for you daily, every fucking day for the last 20 years.
Tell me how you cringe everyday of your life. I want to know your pain. I want to see your suffering. I want tears coming out of your eyes. I want to watch your soul seep thru your skin.
Do not tell me the answer is the program. Do not tell me that I can’ t have that one drink, ever; don’ t tell me that shit. That is not the cure. That cannot be my cure. I can never imagine the rest of my life without drinking.
Here and now, right fucking now, I want to build a safe proof life that I can drink in. I want to create a life or move to a place where I can drink everyday, anytime I want.
Tell me that kind of shit. I want to know someone else is on the same page. Someone else has been here, the depths and fires of hell, and has actually fucking survived.
I can’ t fathom it. I can barely breathe anymore. I want to quit but the doctor says that I don’t. He tells me that I need it. I need my life as it is now, but in total seclusion; away from this place, alone by myself, where I can live and die in peace, drunk and not caring.
It never used to be like this. I used to have purpose and talent, lots of potential. Now, I cringe and hate who I’ve become; and I’ m terribly confused.
I’ m compassionate and empathetic to the world in which I live, however, I also see fault and long for my next drink; and nobody seems to get it. Nobody understands, or gives a shit.
Do you know what an addict is? Do you care? You should! It’ s your mother, your father, your brother or sister. It’ s your best friend or your uncle. It’ s a disease; a fucking epidemic.
It’ s not the people who gave up on life and never really cared or had purpose or a reason to live. It’ s really not. I’ m here to tell you that it’ s not.
But nobody gets it and nobody understands it, and it hurts me even more than the disease itself.
My palms are sweaty and I can’ t stop pacing back and forth when all of the sudden the door bell alarms me. Tina has finally fucking arrived. I called her an hour ago to come and console me.
Thru sobriety, I have realized how awful I’ve been to her and what I’ve put her thru while her relentless friendship and companionship has comforted me all along; and yet, I still want to scream at her as soon as she comes thru that the front fucking door.
I want to tell her that I hate her for taking me to the shelter and let her know how bad I hate my new job. These are the affects. The internal rage is fueled from the absence. I’ m impatient because I am on the fucking edge.
“IT’ S OPEN TINA!!! QUIT RINGING THE FUCKING DOORBELL AND COME IN”
I would have left right then and there if I was her, but I’ m not…and thankfully she didn’t.
She approaches quietly and presents herself gently. I create a mean face, as mean as I possibly can, all awhile holding back the tears. It’ s a mask of the sort. I don’ t want her to see me. I don’ t want her to see my weakness. She has essentially wiped my ass and it’ s now, right now that I crumble in shame.
This is fucking relapse and she is seemingly well aware.
She touches the back of my head and whispers in my ear.
“Shhhh, it’s ok.”
The above is inspired fiction that I wrote around 10 years ago. I’m hoping it can mean as much to someone now as it did for me when I wrote it.