There’s this numbness I felt often growing up. Despite everything going well enough on the surface, underneath, there was a great weight pulling me down. Maybe it’s that warrior spirit fighting through the noise of this distracted generation. Maybe it’s the need of wanting to feel more alive than just going through these motions. It was this feeling that would cause me to drink the most heavily. This unbearable ennui. Now, let’s try something else. 
I hate this feeling. Some deep, overwhelmingly physical sensation, contorts my gut violently. But it’s not physical. It’s pride, humiliation, justification, disrespect, and all the things that I shouldn’t have to fight, yet it drags me down yet again. The urge to escape this feeling can’t be quenched by escapism. No matter how good whatever I’m doing might be, as soon as it’s over, I’m back to thinking about this. Can’t drink my way out.
I would go well past the point of social inebriation because I couldn’t handle the pain of reality. I needed panacea. The serene bliss of numbness outweighed any risk. I was also in a self-destructive mindset stating ‘not much is my fault,’ especially when I couldn’t address the stress and pain in my life, because I was the innocent victim, after all… The pain is still here. It’s just now I can actually fix it!
My addictions strangle me when I’m unable to cope with situations. Hearing bad news kills. Chilling, defined here as succumbing to any addiction, then feels acceptable. If you’re anything like me, we need to re-enforce our defenses, rather than ask that the constant barrage of life’s perhaps-positives and perhaps-negatives cooperate with us. It would be nicer to have a conflict-free life. That won’t happen. Let’s instead try figuring out how to build up our defenses.
I’m still five years clean and five years sober, but that third counter, the addiction to weakness: that’s been going for a few days now. Writing about that helped. Let’s run through an essay about how it’s been over the few days of being in and out of that old familiar zombing drone. It wasn’t without event casualties, though I’m feeling more solid while writing this than I have in a week… or perhaps more?
I don’t know what I was thinking on Tuesday, April 3rd. Probably nothing at all. I was certainly distracted by an overwhelming, lingering, emptiness, even though things are going fine. I just wasn’t feeling well. Not feeling “on my game,” being just sick enough, with creeping self-doubt mixes together into self-destructive disaster smoothy for me. With most of the remaining expired bottle of diphenhydramine, in fancy blue, I took 175 milligrams of the old familiar deliriant.
I don’t remember what stressed me out enough to possess me to drive home on my lunch break, drink enough 190-proof grain alcohol to get wasted almost immediately, before driving back into work to finish my shift. That event’s cleared out of my memory. It was certainly trivial, like someone saying something in a particular way I didn’t like or some process not working as it should, because I’ve encountered many harsher situations while sober.