Hidden lives, hidden bottles, full and empty, hidden vessels of booze, mugs, anything to disguise the contents. Cupboards, drawers, inside winter boots, under beds, the garden, everywhere imaginable.
Then morning dawns, panic, trying to remember where the previous nights binge had been stashed. Inevitably forgotten, leading to all consuming anxiety and frantic searching to ensure the secret remains hidden.
Does any of this ring true with anyone else?
It was never meant to be that way. There was never any ambition to be an alcoholic. It was a gradual tightening of the rope around my throat, a slow suffocation; so subtle it was undetectable.
Fortunately, I had a rude awakening and was given a chance of freedom and escape from delusional affects of alcohol. I have no doubt that ultimately, my so-called best buddy would have led to my death. Either through the damaging effects of alcohol, or my increasing desire to end my life because of the all-consuming belief that everyone would be better off without me, worthlessness and guilt. All beliefs fed and fuelled by the warped sense of loyalty alcohol deceivingly promised me. The process of self medicating my severe depression failing every step of the way.
And now? An overwhelming sense of gratitude for my sobriety and to be free of the binding, asphyxiating chains.I’m one of the lucky ones. A fact I remind myself of every night when my head hits my pillow and every morning.
If I can you can……..
