Recently my besties and I went to visit the grave of a very dear and recently lost, friend. This got me reflecting on how fickle I was in regards to my own life during my drinking days. I had complete disregard for how precious my life was, and is. Disregard which stemmed from a very long history of depression and anxiety, a lot of time undiagnosed.
Where mental illness is concerned alcohol has a lot to answer. I was testamount to it. Its supposed calming influence eventually turning sad thoughts into suicidal ones with its use to self medicate attempting to rid myself of the black dog.
This was reinforced this morning when whilst doing a few errands I saw a couple who were clearly alcoholics. The lady had facial bruising and stitches, both held cans of beer in their quivering, slumped bodies. They were shrouded in a cloud of perfume that only alcoholics wear.
I felt terribly terribly sad. It was a stark reminder to me my old ‘alc d’cologne’ I too once wore and of the injuries I drunkenly caused myself; usually in blackout. I have plenty of scars to prove it, mentally and physically.
There before the grace of God….. I am one of the lucky ones.
In life it’s the agony that makes getting to the otherside so marvellous.