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.
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