The Whiskey Diaries: Entry IV

Last week I managed to reduce my alcohol intake significantly and each day I woke up feeling a little better. Last week I also took a trip to California to see friends and family before starting Image.pngwork here in Nevada. Upon coming home, it was the weekend and just being generally happy to be back home and back where I am starting to feel comfortable, I decided to let myself drink more, and harder alcohol (I have been weening myself slowly with lower and lower alcohol content in what I drink) telling myself it was just for the weekend and I deserved it. Then came Monday, when I had to drop my Fiance off at the airport for a work trip and prepare to – yet again – spend time alone and isolated.

So what did I do? I drank, of course. Now it’s Wednesday and I’m back to feeling that anxiety in the morning, not being able to take a deep breath without my chest feeling funny, and my hands shaking slightly. Needless to say, I’ve only had a few bites of food today and I feel like shit.

Today is a no Whiskey day. I used to be happy holding a bottle of Jameson in my hand at the store, happy to be able to get home and have a few drinks, relax, do the usual around the house. Now every time I reach for a bottle on the shelf and carry it to the check-out, I feel slightly disgusted with myself, almost ashamed, the whole time saying in my head “Fuck, here we go again…” I’m still struggling to get my weight over 105 pounds. I turn 32 in two months and refuse to let this take over another year of my life.

I originally started drinking to forget things, anything that hurt me emotionally as I have a higher physical pain tolerance than most. Now the drinking makes me overthink, makes me lazy and careless, and at times incredibly mean. Who wants to live like that? I know that I don’t, not anymore. It’s opened the doors to too many things, none of which have been good or healthy.

Honestly, I’ll be pretty disappointed in myself if I venture out later and pick up a bottle, but sometimes even the disappointment isn’t enough to stop me. Fingers crossed, I sit here writing and looking at my projects and crafts I work on, realizing I have barely touched them in weeks. Hopefully, if all goes well, I start work in three weeks and will get back to some sort or normalcy and independence. I have to admit, twelve-hour work days are not going to give me enough time to drink, and I’m looking forward to that.


72 Hours In…

It’s been three days. 14844-blue-water-drops-on-a-dark-leaf-2560x1600-digital-art-wallpaper

I’m in a new state, a new home, a new territory, and new surroundings. A new adventure is about to begin – or already has – and I have NO fucking idea how this will end up. My goal; to be a better person, healthy, genuinely better… because who I am now is killing me.

I’m not as scared as I thought I would be. I’m not struggling as bad as I thought I would. But, I have a side of me that takes over, kind of like an autopilot mode. There’s a side of me that takes over and keeps everything under the surface. It will explode one day, I know this.

The nightmares lately are almost too much. I wake up sweating and crying. I wake up panicking and wanting to claw my way out of where ever I am. I wake up terrified and pissed off. I wake up and don’t ever want to go back to sleep, no matter how tired or delirious I am. For instance, today I have been unpacking boxes and trying to set up my new home since 3 am.

The people and the environment here is a culture shock. I have no idea what the fuck I am going to do, how I will be, what I will like, and not like.

I look at the backyard that is now mine, the living room, the kitchen, the environment that I now currently reside in, and I think about how I need to get healthy, how I am lucky to even be here – yet alive. I have put myself through so much physically, I could be a medical science experiment. How do I even function? How do I wake up every day and still am able to live like a regular human being? Of all the times I have tried to kill myself on purpose, I am shocked it never happened by accident.

Self indulgence, greed, pride… these are the things that drive – and inevitably – lead me to my demise. I own my faults. I don’t deny my wrong doings. I am who I am. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. And it doesn’t mean I don’t fully understand myself.

Not even I understand the dustiest corners of my mixed up soul…

Into The Dark

I’m back in this place again. Except this time, I am already past the black rosebushes outside, the enormous entrance, that red velvet couch and matted floor, to the base of the stairs. It’s almost pitch black outside and I’m staring up into what I already know is going to be a journey that I never fully finish… and never enjoy. 

As I lift the inevitable dress I’m wearing to take my first step upward, I can’t help but notice my bare feet. Always having been bare in this place before, this time something is wrong; my toes and joints look aged and twisted, and it horrified me more than this place. 

My bare foot touches what feels like years of dust, dirt, and forgotten times on top of dried and almost rotted wood. The step creaks a heavy moan as I place my full body weight on top. I find myself almost willing to not make it to the top. This is a strange feeling as usually when I am here, I’m filled with curiosity and fear. Now I only feel a willing openess to what I know is about to come in the next few moments of this repeating story. 

After each step up the long staircase in this rickety old story, each one threatening to snap under my bare skin, I’m standing once again in that long hallway of doors. Why do they always have to be closed? There’s never enough light for me to see – or nor can I ever remember – which way the hallways turns at the end, but I can tell you that never remembering is one of the worst feelings about halfway into this story. 

Again, I can feel the years and layers of dust, crumbles of broken things like picture frames and pieces of wood, mixed with the crunch of dead leaves blown in, but I could never tell you from where. The first door I reach has a small crystal doorknob – the kind you would find in a Victorian house. I try to open it already knowing it’s locked. The next has no doorknob at all, just a hold that I can never bring myself to touch or look through. 

I always decide to skip the next three as I’m drawn to some sort of sound that I can only recognize as crying. I take careful steps as not to splinter my feet on the already dried out wood and debris on the hallways floor. I go from lightly touching my fingertips along the walls for guidence, to feeling paint chips start to rip off and get stuck under my nails as I start to dig in. 

I’m now at the end of the hallway and something stops me. I remember that I don’t know which way to turn, and I know I’m going to turn the wrong way, because this is the only way. So I take a deep breath, this time I slowly turn to my right, and can’t help but still feel my heart stop and my nerves light on fire as I see a pale figure standing, barely visible but completely real. I calm myself reminding myself that it is only my reflection; I have been here enough times to know now. So I turn around and walk the opposite way. As always.

The hallway is darker now. I have one hand on the wall to stay steady and the other out in front of me, reaching for anything I can’t see… even if I’m scared to death. The sound is louder now, so I continue. But even with the sound of the crying growing as I got closer, the sound of my heartbeat and breathing inside my head is so loud I swear the world could hear it

Finally, I reach the final door. The hand I have stretched out touches a surface like any other in this place; glossy and smooth. Almost like fresh paint. This is not the usual door. I reach down for the usual rusted feeling door knob, and instead it’s smooth and sphirical, like glass. But the minute I try to turn the handle, that scream comes. The one that makes my blood curdle and my skin crawl. So loud it sounds like it’s right behind me or all around me.

That’s I usually the point I wake up.