The only way out of hell, is through it. Morbid, maybe? Morose?
After a decade and more of being an alcoholic, I ended up in the hospital over the weekend, after booze, depression and imminent unemployment all conspired for me to do something drastic (though not suicidally so).
My parents, my brother and my wife all sat down today and had a meeting. I call it a meeting and not an intervention, because an intervention is for people who insist they don't have a problem, where as I've admitted being dependent on alcohol many times through my life.
The outcome of that meeting is that, under my own direction, I no longer drink alcohol. Should I fall off the wagon, then my wife will not hesitate to enter me into rehab.
I'm unsure of my future going forward into an alcohol free life. I don't believe I need to drink, but when I do, I can drink a fucking pirate under the table. There used to be an off switch, but the off switch got snapped off, and I can drink myself into oblivion.
Having said that, I'm not a violent drunk, and never have been. I'm a happy, carefree drunk, one who likes to make people laugh.
But I'm not laughing anymore, because my situation just isn't funny. My wife's father is a chronic alcoholic who has danced with death intimately, nearly shuffling off his mortal coil twice. My stepbrother's maternal mother drank herself to death. My stepsister's father is a chronic alcoholic who is the same colour as margarine.
Some of my best friends are fellow alcoholics. I don't whether they care to admit that, but it's true. I love the drink, but I honestly feel that I have no option but to become completely straightedge. Not that I'll shove that in other people's faces, like those hardcore straightedge guys do, but I'm either straightedge, or I drink myself to death. Slowly; my body collapsing under the years of punishment and regret.
I have already completed 24 hours as a sober person. This is day 2.
Will there be a day 200? 2000?
Well, that's up to me.
Tuesday 21 February 2012
Wednesday 15 February 2012
I'm not a gambling man, however...
My dog is a Great Dane. A small Great Dane, as Danes go, but that still makes him much bigger than most dogs out there. In the 11 years of his (long lived) life, ten of those were miraculous, in a dog sense, as in that entire time I never once witnessed him do a shit in public. You see people walking their dogs, lead in one hand and a plastic bag in the other, waiting inevitably for their pooch to finally find a spot where it will think "THIS! This is the place!" and then do their business.
I never used to have to worry about that, until about a year ago, he spontaneously let a bundle drop on our nightly walk. I was aghast, as I've never had to carry a plastic bag, and had no way to clear it away. I told him "I do hope that was a one off, you silly dog, you."
Fast forward to now, and he pretty much shits every single night. The catch though, is that, in his dotage, it would appear that his sphincter just isn't up to the task of holding those huge Great Dane turds inside the bomb bay. So rather than him sniff for a place to drop a length of dirty spine, he just keeps walking as he does it, almost completely unawares. The only signal I get is a gentle tug on the lead that alerts me to the fact that he is dragging behind, his back legs slightly hunched up, dropping a Thora every few metres. I sigh, and he just looks at me with that classic 'what?' expression.
All this I explain because I have made a gambling game out of it, called 'Surprise! Shit.' The rules are simple, in that I try to guess at which point on our walk he will start lagging behind, dropping copper bolts. Today I guessed he would do it before the main road, but the joke was on me, as he did it outside the pub. I reckon I'm averaging 50/50, but I aim to get better, because there's fuck all else to do when walking the dog, except think of tits.
The thing is, there is a mystery to this. He still shits in the backyard. By a simple ratio comparing the food I give him, versus the mountains of dog muck I pick up, the evidence is strongly in favour of the fact that he shits more than he eats. I wish that show Unexplained Mysteries was still around.
I never used to have to worry about that, until about a year ago, he spontaneously let a bundle drop on our nightly walk. I was aghast, as I've never had to carry a plastic bag, and had no way to clear it away. I told him "I do hope that was a one off, you silly dog, you."
Fast forward to now, and he pretty much shits every single night. The catch though, is that, in his dotage, it would appear that his sphincter just isn't up to the task of holding those huge Great Dane turds inside the bomb bay. So rather than him sniff for a place to drop a length of dirty spine, he just keeps walking as he does it, almost completely unawares. The only signal I get is a gentle tug on the lead that alerts me to the fact that he is dragging behind, his back legs slightly hunched up, dropping a Thora every few metres. I sigh, and he just looks at me with that classic 'what?' expression.
All this I explain because I have made a gambling game out of it, called 'Surprise! Shit.' The rules are simple, in that I try to guess at which point on our walk he will start lagging behind, dropping copper bolts. Today I guessed he would do it before the main road, but the joke was on me, as he did it outside the pub. I reckon I'm averaging 50/50, but I aim to get better, because there's fuck all else to do when walking the dog, except think of tits.
The thing is, there is a mystery to this. He still shits in the backyard. By a simple ratio comparing the food I give him, versus the mountains of dog muck I pick up, the evidence is strongly in favour of the fact that he shits more than he eats. I wish that show Unexplained Mysteries was still around.
Thursday 2 February 2012
My mind hurts.
Because this man exists. I am almost at a loss for words to describe how I feel about this rant.
If you are gay, they argue, then God put the 'gay' on earth to confuse people, and divert them from the true path towards heaven. I would argue that the 'gays' have more fun than any bible-bashing god-botherer, they who are shut up in their sad churches, praying and beseeching a God that doesn't care.
I'd much rather hang out with a gay person than a devout Christian. I must be a heretic. Probably gay too.
If you are gay, they argue, then God put the 'gay' on earth to confuse people, and divert them from the true path towards heaven. I would argue that the 'gays' have more fun than any bible-bashing god-botherer, they who are shut up in their sad churches, praying and beseeching a God that doesn't care.
I'd much rather hang out with a gay person than a devout Christian. I must be a heretic. Probably gay too.
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