I wouldn't call myself an alcoholic, not just because the term terrifies me with its severity, but also because it's not affecting me to an extent that seems to warrant it. I can happily go through a day at work without a drink and on some evenings, when I am otherwise occupied, I might not even think about it. I never drink on mornings - except once, but that was because I'd spent a night being refused sex in the Most Terrifying House in England, which was home to a Whomping Willow and was almost certainly rented by Slenderman, and I was then forced to have a single glass of Shiraz to steady my nerves.
But I do drink most weeknights and it occasionally leaves me feeling a little more than grotty when I get up for work the next morning. On weekends I go a bit more hardcore, and while it's somehow acceptable on weekends I do inevitably feel like a heap of decaying shit for the better part of the following day, until I perk up in the evening and the whole sorry thing begins again. As of now, it's nearly eight pm and I'm only on the second G&T of the evening, which isn't so bad, but I am alone and I'm not really enjoying it. It's not an issue that is significantly affecting the quality of my life, such as it is, but on many of these long, lonely nights I don't even particularly want to drink, and I regret it even while I do it. But nevertheless, here we are again, with glass in hand and growing sense of sorrow. Essentially, I do want to stop, but am so far epically failing to do so.
I once brought this up with an ex-doctor-friend of mine. Ex-friend that is, not ex-doctor, because we slept together one night and it was an incredibly disappointing experience for all parties and next morning it was so excruciatingly awkward that it was easier to never speak again. I blame the fact that it was unsatisfying and sad. But I brought the issue up one day, under that unconvincing guise of 'my friend wants to know this...' and my sub-par lover likened it to self-harm. As in, drinking oneself to oblivion has similarities to cutting oneself. I can't agree definitively with this comparison simply because I can't speak for the mindset behind self-harm. I have only done it once and, like Marmite or The Mighty Boosh, it was not for me. But the alignment doesn't strike me as inaccurate.
I am well-aware that I use alcohol as a coping mechanism. I know that sometimes I drink because I'm bored, or lonely, or I know that in a few hours time I'm going to have to do something that's going to make me inconsolably anxious and I want to relax. And it's all very well knowing this, but it's of little use when I so consistently fail to find a viable alternative. I did wonder if it might be something worth bringing up at the doctor's next week, but it is only the first appointment and I don't want to overwhelm poor Watson with my tales of woe.
Watson: So what's the problem?
Cecil: I have anxiety. And depression. I think I might have a borderline alcohol problem. Also skin cancer.
Watson: I see.
Cecil: I'd like you to check for all the cancers, actually.
Watson: (sighs) We have told you before, Mr Cavender. One problem at a time.
Cecil: For every cancer? I'll be coming back for years.
Watson: I'm sure you will, yes.
But the appointment is not imminent and I've no idea if I'll even have the courage to mention it. My medical record is ridiculous enough without potential alcoholic being added to the tome, and I fear they'll think I'm imagining it like every other case of Incoming Death I've arrived with.
So by the time of finishing this I'm on my fourth G&T and frankly, I don't think anything's going to change before the fifth.
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| I didn't see him, but then I suppose if I had, I wouldn't be here. |
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