The "trials of my endurance of commitment" are a series of three times in the past week where I was challenged with the decision to drink or not and I gave in to the addiction. Yes, that's right, I'm trying to hop on the wagon again. 'Twas no smashing glass that initiated it about thirty days ago, it "just felt like the time." With the upcoming opportunity of October looming during those last days of September, I struck out rather ordinary...swearing solemnly off the sauce after a too-familiar "night" of six Longhammers and a Foster kicker. As usual and persistent of late, I didn't fare well the next "day," a workday at that, and so just said "it's time." And this time it stuck. Well until these aforementioned "trials."
First was a fierce craving for homemade spaghetti and meatballs necessitating, oh-so-conveniently, a stop on the way home one morning at Publix. You'd think my craving included the natural complimentary beverage to go with the meal, a nice bottle (or two) of Chianti. And it did, but I chose, of course, to start my cruise through the aisles on the far right. The cheese aisle, which is also the beer aisle. And there, though I tried to avert my eyes away, I spied in my peripheral vision that the Torpedo twelvers were again on sale. And a deeper discount than a couple weeks before. It took me a while, after I'd gathered my ground beef, breadcrumbs, pasta and sauce but I eventually made my way back to the beer aisle. Publix Crises within a Publix are devastating. I was practically in tears from the internal struggle.
The Torpedos did their job, I passed out within a couple of hours. Of course I held off making the meal. Instead, though discovered only after I'd woken up the next day by way of the evidence around the apartment, I gorged through half of a frozen family-sized lasagna and even managed to spill some on the living room carpet, creating a big, ugly red stain.
Blackout, check; passed out, check; wicked hangover, check. But no pleasure. Whether my mind rejected the euphoria or my brain chemistry is somehow altered, I didn't enjoy that warm glow that usually associated the early slugs, the giddy silliness that usually accompanies the mid-stages after about four or so and the blissful stupor which usually defines the late-stages, just before passing out. Well, the mid and late stages being under the cloak of the blackout, maybe I did then, but afterward, of course, remembered nothing. There definitely was no warm glow in the beginning though. Just nausea and fear of encroaching GERD coupled with the dislike of the bitterness of the hoppy brew. Like a kid would react to a few sips of his dad's strong IPA.
The second trial was the day after recovery day, ie two days later. This time I was in Winn-Dixie searching for hydrocortisone cream to sooth my itchy bug bites. But why enter and head to the right? The pharmacy items are to the far left. Oh, just a few odds and ends while I'm here...like the Chianti. And here it was on a fabulous sale. And for a 1.5 liter. No pass out or blackout this time 'round, but again no pleasure. No euphoria. Just literally sour grapes.
A couple days later, freaking out over the thought of this potential bed bug infestation and dealing with an "all-dayer" and a couple Monster energy drinks under my belt, I needed to "wind down" quickly. And the Benedryls weren't making a dent. So for "sleep-aid medicine" I got out of my freshly-sanitized bed and planned to quickly grab a twelver at nearby WD. But approaching my car, I saw that what must have been the biggest flock of seagulls ever had shit bombed my car overnight and it was covered in it. I had to take care of this first so I drove down to the Mobil where there's an automatic car wash and the car wash was closed. The clerks said there was another in Altamonte but instead I just grabbed a twelve of Yuengling and headed back home, bird shit be dammed.
I sucked the first two down as fast as possible. This should bring on the "warm fuzzies" fast. It didn't. Two more, lickity-split. But they were hard to swallow. they were ice cold and fresh and should have been delicious but my taste buds had changed. They didn't like the taste of beer. And the glow never came. My heart and mind were darkened to alcohol. It was being shunned and could entrance me no more. I knew that now. So I solemnly opened each of the other eight cans and poured them down the drain.
Now two more days later, I think I'm through the gauntlet. Well, no, I feel it, really. It's just an overwhelming sensation of being done with it for good. Though tomorrow would have been the 30-day mark, the white chip if you will, I'm starting over and back to Day 2. And that's okay. I feel good. Really. I'm a bit down, but withdrawals and the realization of a dynamic shift in one's life can do that.
I'll be okay.