I made it to day 165 before I had a drink. I sat in my car at the park down the street from my house. In the passenger seat was a new pack of Marlboro Black 100s, and two tall cans of Miller Highlife. I wanted Modelo but that’s not the point of this sad story that happened the week before Easter Sunday.
I shakily raised the beer to my lips and took several sips just so I didn’t drop the damn thing. I had forgotten how heavy these big beer cans were. Before I knew it the familiar feeling of tipsy come over me and I instantly felt the shame again. I called my friend and neighbor Mark and he rushed to the scene of this tragic crime.
The look he gave me when he saw my vulnerable, drunken state made me feel worse. I wanted to run away and never come back. I was spiraling all over again and my best friend was there to witness and I could tell how helpless and scared he felt for me. I hate that I did that to everyone that day.
We drove back home in his Honda and I decided the gig was up and I needed to call my therapist who inevitably pink slipped me because I used the magic words. “I’d off myself if I had the fucking guts to do it; I’m basically just hoping someone will do it for me, or I can just run into traffic like my mother always told me to do when I was a child.”
So maybe a hour and a half went by and my buzz started to wear off so I became panicked and realized I needed to eat something before I was carted away by the police preforming their wellness check. I made myself rice in the pressure cooker and scrambled eggs and cheese. I don’t know why I chose that specific meal, but I gobbled it up anyway before having my last cigarettes with Mark on my front porch waiting for the police to arrive.
When they finally arrived I did what I normally do.
So in that moment I went inside the house again and grabbed a tray of cookies I had made the night before. I walked up to the burliest police man they sent, which looking back, they were all pretty stacked, including the pretty lady cop they sent, and proceeded to barter him cookies for my life. He laughed but there was nothing funny.
As I looked back at Mark from the inside of a cop car, I witnessed again, a disturbed and concerned friend. He stared at the ground and smoked his cigarette anxiously.
I was in the hospital for six days and I came home the Monday after Easter. I don’t know why this is relevant to the story at all because I lost my faith in god a long time ago. But on that day I felt reborn somehow. Everything felt so fresh and colorful; familiar yet new. It was all a breath of fresh air. I’ve never been to prison but it felt like I was walking free from something criminal; like the attempted murder of myself.
I’m thirteen days sober from alcohol today. I wish that would somehow gave me hope, but I’m still struggling pretty badly. I still feeling really hopeless and alone. I still want to drink my sorrows away even though I know better, but the thought is way too tempting currently. It’s only a temporary feeling of relief before the wave of shame that comes after.
I hope wherever he is, my father is looking out for me. I hope he’s preparing for our reunion one day. I hope he’s helping me on the other side.
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