It forces the Jekyll out of my Hyde
I made myself lonely.
There, I said it, acknowledged it, pledged it for the world to know. I made my myself an alien.
I did it meticulously, over the course of 3 short years. Sure, I can blame two people not in my life anymore on that bitch named death. But everyone else was me. My love for discourse and passion for self-hatred. I made myself lonely and bitter.
Maybe it was the pills, the long, loathsome nights staring at a blank wall waiting for them to black me out. While my roommate and at that time, best friend, as well as others enjoyed each other's company. I filled my belly with whiskey and pills. Being high is a steadfast feeling, a temporary and ultimately grisly feeling, the loss of your own self-control and inhibitions into some sort of fantastical bliss only you can truly perceive.
You know what trying to constantly achieve that got me? Nothing. Nothing but alienating those couple friends I did have left, after all, who really loves a drunk? These people I used to spend everyday with, sharing a barrage of inside jokes and night time adventures i will never forget, are now nothing but memories. I text, they don't text back; I call and it goes to voicemail, with no returned calls. I made myself lonely.
Then I fixed it. I enrolled in college and moved away, and met a new group of people that I could share those jokes with once more. Those night time adventures came back to life, a girl liked me for the first time in months, I felt like I finally figured it out. This, this is what I wanted. This feeling of social closeness. But one thing still stuck with me, my insane habit of alcoholism.
Now, alcohol is different from drugs in the way that the stigma which surrounds it is by very definition social. It is plastered in advertisements everywhere, there is not one city in America you cannot find alcohol living in. It is more accepted by more people than sniffing down a broken up line of Valium mixed with Xanax, screaming "Whooo" to try to mentally avoid the deep nasal burn. Alcohol is social and social was what I longed for so badly. The thing that alcohol and drugs share however, is their ability to hook you instantly. The first time I tried booze was the last time I was sober. Even if I'm not drinking, I am thinking about drinking. I am calculating when the next time some nice bourbon will be in my glass or when I'll be able to down a fifth of blue Smirnoff and wallow in my self-pity. Because that is what alcoholism truly is at heart, a wallow in self-pity.
I can sit around and make excuses: my best friend is dead, my parents divorced, I am by nature filled with more aggravation than Jack Nicholson in the 1980's. But there excuses, nothing more than reasons I must convince myself of every time I must justify my reason for drinking tonight, or today, or this morning. I wish my friends were still my friends, all of them, there is not one of them I do not miss on a daily basis. Sometimes I try sending them a "Hey" or some humorous snapchat. They read the texts and open the snapchats, but again, no reply. Because they have had it with the blackouts, with the booze-fueled rage and yammering on about nothing. Because life is not supposed to always be a party where you need to be wrecked to have a good time. And now my life is no party, the party's are long over. The night time adventures have molded into laying on a couch alone and the inside jokes have become nothing more than passing thoughts I have on my drive home.
I think by the time of this writing alcohol does not even interest me anymore. I do not give it a thought, and I will drink it, but each time I do, it more than certainly becomes a feeling of self-hatred. I know that it forces out the Jekyll to my Hyde; It makes me think and act like a lunatic, engaging in violence and blood-letting anytime an opportunity arises. I know it makes me scary. It makes me lie. It makes me hate even more than I do in a sober state of mind. It makes death look all that much better than life. I cannot stand it but I cannot stand myself. I get drunk on the melancholy now, wallowing in my self-pity and worthlessness and often have thoughts of how few people outside my family would be present at my funeral. I can tell you that number with certainty: 1. The girl whom i thought would never leave drove away over a year ago. The only person from high school that still sees enough of a friend in me to reply to my texts is the only person I have left. 1. Not that I am ungrateful for him, but that number used to be infinitely higher.
Addiction is almost an unreal feeling to me, because at its root, all it actually entails is self-pity and an obsession with making others feel bad for you. Nobody wants a friend like that. Look at this diatribe I am sitting here writing, all a huge plea for attention due to self-pity. Now if you're an addict, can you really tell me this is untrue? Because there is not a single cell in my body that believes such a crock of shit.
That, is The Word of today. I suppose.
There, I said it, acknowledged it, pledged it for the world to know. I made my myself an alien.
I did it meticulously, over the course of 3 short years. Sure, I can blame two people not in my life anymore on that bitch named death. But everyone else was me. My love for discourse and passion for self-hatred. I made myself lonely and bitter.
Maybe it was the pills, the long, loathsome nights staring at a blank wall waiting for them to black me out. While my roommate and at that time, best friend, as well as others enjoyed each other's company. I filled my belly with whiskey and pills. Being high is a steadfast feeling, a temporary and ultimately grisly feeling, the loss of your own self-control and inhibitions into some sort of fantastical bliss only you can truly perceive.
You know what trying to constantly achieve that got me? Nothing. Nothing but alienating those couple friends I did have left, after all, who really loves a drunk? These people I used to spend everyday with, sharing a barrage of inside jokes and night time adventures i will never forget, are now nothing but memories. I text, they don't text back; I call and it goes to voicemail, with no returned calls. I made myself lonely.
Then I fixed it. I enrolled in college and moved away, and met a new group of people that I could share those jokes with once more. Those night time adventures came back to life, a girl liked me for the first time in months, I felt like I finally figured it out. This, this is what I wanted. This feeling of social closeness. But one thing still stuck with me, my insane habit of alcoholism.
Now, alcohol is different from drugs in the way that the stigma which surrounds it is by very definition social. It is plastered in advertisements everywhere, there is not one city in America you cannot find alcohol living in. It is more accepted by more people than sniffing down a broken up line of Valium mixed with Xanax, screaming "Whooo" to try to mentally avoid the deep nasal burn. Alcohol is social and social was what I longed for so badly. The thing that alcohol and drugs share however, is their ability to hook you instantly. The first time I tried booze was the last time I was sober. Even if I'm not drinking, I am thinking about drinking. I am calculating when the next time some nice bourbon will be in my glass or when I'll be able to down a fifth of blue Smirnoff and wallow in my self-pity. Because that is what alcoholism truly is at heart, a wallow in self-pity.
I can sit around and make excuses: my best friend is dead, my parents divorced, I am by nature filled with more aggravation than Jack Nicholson in the 1980's. But there excuses, nothing more than reasons I must convince myself of every time I must justify my reason for drinking tonight, or today, or this morning. I wish my friends were still my friends, all of them, there is not one of them I do not miss on a daily basis. Sometimes I try sending them a "Hey" or some humorous snapchat. They read the texts and open the snapchats, but again, no reply. Because they have had it with the blackouts, with the booze-fueled rage and yammering on about nothing. Because life is not supposed to always be a party where you need to be wrecked to have a good time. And now my life is no party, the party's are long over. The night time adventures have molded into laying on a couch alone and the inside jokes have become nothing more than passing thoughts I have on my drive home.
I think by the time of this writing alcohol does not even interest me anymore. I do not give it a thought, and I will drink it, but each time I do, it more than certainly becomes a feeling of self-hatred. I know that it forces out the Jekyll to my Hyde; It makes me think and act like a lunatic, engaging in violence and blood-letting anytime an opportunity arises. I know it makes me scary. It makes me lie. It makes me hate even more than I do in a sober state of mind. It makes death look all that much better than life. I cannot stand it but I cannot stand myself. I get drunk on the melancholy now, wallowing in my self-pity and worthlessness and often have thoughts of how few people outside my family would be present at my funeral. I can tell you that number with certainty: 1. The girl whom i thought would never leave drove away over a year ago. The only person from high school that still sees enough of a friend in me to reply to my texts is the only person I have left. 1. Not that I am ungrateful for him, but that number used to be infinitely higher.
Addiction is almost an unreal feeling to me, because at its root, all it actually entails is self-pity and an obsession with making others feel bad for you. Nobody wants a friend like that. Look at this diatribe I am sitting here writing, all a huge plea for attention due to self-pity. Now if you're an addict, can you really tell me this is untrue? Because there is not a single cell in my body that believes such a crock of shit.
That, is The Word of today. I suppose.
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