Memoires of a Drunkard
Some days when I’m deep in the bottle I can almost feel ethereal and see me going to get another unneeded drink. I scream that “you don’t need it.” “You shouldn’t have it.” Every drink I have shuts down the more sane part of my mind. Allowing this black abyss of hatred rise to the surface. I am almost without power when I am like this. I can only look in horror as I begin to slip into my own mind. Wishing I was stronger to just say no more. To just not feel the need to consume so much. It has become a crutch. A need almost. At first it helps me cope. To calm down. Feel like I did a decade ago. Without pain. With our regret. Without hatred and a sense that I should be dead. For the first few I feel like I used to. When I was happy. An emotion I seldom feel these days. Then after it becomes much darker. Hate fills me. Self-preservation becomes nonexistent. I become all that I fear has been buried deep in my head. I push my hatred outward toward those that may or may not deserve it. Honestly it is only through the company of my dogs that I am still alive and remain relatively calm. Was it nor for Jazz I would have ended my own life years ago. There have been many plans. Visualization. Choosing the caliber, or what length of rope or even what pills would work. Even now I drink a gin and tonic as I scribe this. Looking at a mirror to my left hating what I see. I would have much rather dies in combat. Or dies somewhat heroic, saving someone. But no, better men have died in my place. Men that could change the world. And here I sit. Angry. Sad. Disappointed I live and breathe.
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