Day 8: Pseudo-vertigo
I am drinking for the sole purpose of feeling how it is again to need an assistance to ambulate, or that I have to prop myself up against the wall and railings as I ascend to my bedroom because I have no sense of muscle coordination. I am curious how it is like again to be in a state of pseudo-vertigo where everything around me is constantly swirling. And I find it amusing how it’s like to once more convince those around you repeatedly that you are still fine, all the while doing your best to keep your head off the table because it suddenly had a tremendous affinity for the floor.
I swear, that’s my main goal – to be heavily inebriated just to recall how it feels.
However, those who know what I’m going through were concerned that I am drowning myself in alcohol while wallowing in self-pity or in misery. While that may be subliminally true, I am consciously diverting my thoughts away from the source of my dreariness. I am not the one who can solve this current predicament, and it also takes time to make itself clearer. Thinking about it and torturing myself by celebrating the confusion and heartache it has caused will not solve anything.
Having put aside those thoughts gave room for new ones – for serious thoughts, for happy thoughts, and new ideas that can inject some enthusiasm in my every day. And these are things I desperately need because having succumbed to melancholy has pulled me down and kept me out of focus.
I am determined to find my old self back.
***
I have already downed 1 vodka ice cruiser and I thought misery loves company. If I can’t be happy, no one can be. I mean it. But as I dissect this thought, I realized this is only applicable to two people playing tango with my life.
I could continue being miserable, but I would only be digging deeper into a pool of agony. Would I rather drown there or in a renowned amusement with the aftermath of alcohol?
You obviously figured out what I chose.
After a few raunchy episodes of Californication and at the end of my third bottle, I was in that limbo between the outposts of sobriety and possibly the first stages of mild intoxication – none of the physiological responses that I was looking forward to. At the end of that third bottle, gastritis kicked in and knocked me off the mild intoxication I was trying to penetrate.
So much for getting delirious. Epic fail.
