It was October. Days started out with a chill, the previous day’s heat having snaked away overnight. Dew-stained ground and the sharp scent of rural air assaulted my nose as I slowly made my way through the field beside my house. Two dogs wandered purposefully ahead of me, straining at their leashes, noses buried in overly-long blades of grass, attempting to discern what smells have changed overnight. My nostrils were full of mourning, my mucus glands always overactive after a night of fitful sleep, sinuses clogged with the results of yet another night of heavy drinking.
Picking up the mess the dogs left behind, I contemplated the decision I had made the night before as I poured my sixth four-finger glass of scotch for the evening. I was done with alcohol. I hated the way it made me feel. I hated the way it prevented me from sleeping the whole night through. I hated the uneasy mornings, stomach rumbling in disapproval, unsure of when I had gone to bed or what (if anything) I ate for dinner the night before. I was tired of spending so much money on whiskey.
Knowing that I was a willful person who had accomplished many seemingly impossible things before in my life when I finally put the weight of my belief behind a decision, I knew that I would be able to accomplish this too. It would be difficult, I knew. Nearly two decades of behavior wouldn’t be changed overnight. But I had to start somewhere, and tonight would be that night. Instead of consuming half a handle of Johnnie Walker, I would pour out the little remains in my cabinet and spend the evening reading one of the dozens of books sitting on my coffee table — purchased, but waiting to be read for months.
Removing the leashes from my dogs as we entered the house, I determinedly strode into the kitchen. Throwing open the cabinet doors above my fridge, I took every bottle of alcohol I had and sat them on the counter next to the sink. Once the cabinet lay empty, I loosened the caps of each bottle in turn. Knowing that I needed accountability or I would possibly renege on my decision, I pulled my phone out to record myself. I oriented the camera towards my face, and hit the record button.
“Today is October 24th. I’m done letting alcohol rule my life. I’m done being a slave to this poison. Today I declare that I’m changing my life, and it starts with this!” I proclaimed. On “this” I turned the camera to face outwards again, recording myself pouring each bottle down the drain. As each emptied, I grabbed the next, never halting in my recording. I knew I would stick with it this time, because the loss of so much money being literally thrown out the drain would provide the necessary impetus I needed to keep me from purchasing another. After all, I hated wasting money.
Once the bottles found themselves in the recycling, I dressed myself for work and left the dogs with a cheerful goodbye, knowing that the daytime television I left on for them in my absence would keep them company until I returned. The drive to work was filled with pride in my decision to quit, and determination to stick with that decision. My day passed quickly, and before I knew it I was driving home, amazed that I had gone nearly half a day without so much as a thought of drinking when I got home.
I knew I needed groceries though. Stopping at the store I snagged the first cart in the queue and began tracing the familiar route through the store. Eggs over here, bread over there. Sliced turkey down this aisle, with my favorite discounted meats at the end of this long row of choice prime rib. Having done this routine hundreds of times, it was entirely unnecessary to even glance at the signs above the aisles denoting their contents — I knew their contents by heart. Maybe it was that ingrained familiarity that led to my downfall. Maybe not. All I knew was that towards the end of my meanderings in the store, I found myself unexpectedly at the liquor aisle, standing at the entrance.
I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until it came out in a shuddering sigh. Glancing down at my cart, I noted that I already had everything I needed. No need to go through this aisle to get to anywhere else. In fact, the check-out was behind me. You can just turn around and check out. Just turn around and leave. You’ve made it ten hours so far – you can make it another five before it’s time to sleep and then another day awaits, I thought to myself, as unconscious footsteps brought me into the aisle. The chill from the cold beers on my left did nothing to ease the fever rising inside of me like a flash-flood as I turned to my right where the whiskeys sat, ordered neatly, a contrast to the maelstrom of arguments screaming themselves in my head.
Ok, you’ve looked. You’ve confirmed that the handles of Johnnie Walker are still in the same place they were two days ago. You can turn around and go to the check-out. You can stop here! The voice in my head, worriedly rising in volume, sounded like my determination from this morning. The hand that wrapped around the heavy bottle paused halfway between the shelf and my cart, but ultimately lowered until the bottle lay gently between the tortilla chips and unsalted butter.
Turning my cart around, I trudged slowly back the way I came, feet dragging like lead. As I approached the end of the aisle, I hesitated. It’s not too late. You can put the bottle back. You don’t even need to put it back. Just put it anywhere on the shelf next to you. It’s ok. Feeling as though I was exerting herculean effort, I lifted one foot, and then the next. As I began lifting my items onto the conveyor belt, that voice of determination from this morning turned desperate and high-pitched.
OK! You haven’t done anything irreversible yet! You can still take out the whiskey! You can tell the cashier you don’t want it after all! You can push it in the stack of chips to your left! Please! You don’t have to do this!!! You don’t want to do this! No one is forcing you!
The cashier gave no indication that they could see the raging battle inside of me. Adding the bottle to the end of the conveyor, it was swiped through like everything else that came out of my basket. My face was a familiar one in this store. The need to card me ceased to be relevant several years before. Swiping my card and collecting the receipt, I pushed my cart filled with nutrition and contraband towards my car.
Waiting at the signal a single block away from my house, the voice that had taken a vow of silence returned with a vengeance. Ok. You’ve wasted more money, and that’s a shame, but you can still turn this around. Dump it in the trash before you come inside. Throw it out of the window into the street. Leave it in the trunk and gift it to a coworker tomorrow. You don’t have to do this.
But, like many times before, I ignored it. Assembling the bags in one hand, I unlocked the door, frantic scratching and excited barking already greeting me from behind it. I made my way to the kitchen, where I left the bags, before leashing up the dogs and taking them out for a walk. My mind was blank — no pleading voice, no inner-monologue — but my emotions roiled like churning waves in a storm. I felt like each step I took back to my front door was like walking towards the gallows. My heart beat so fast and furious I felt dizzy. Settling the dogs in the living room with after-walk treats, I made my way to the kitchen.
Methodically putting away the groceries, I stalled by first putting away the bags, cleaning off the counter, and moving the clean dishes from the drying rack into their respective cabinets. Closing the cabinet which contained cups — ranging from coffee mugs to highball glasses — I paused. Reaching in with my off hand, I let my fingers curl around the whiskey glass.
I mechanically turned to the freezer, scooping some ice into the glass. I pounded the glass onto the counter, perhaps harder than intended because the ringing sound of glass on granite startled my dogs. They inched their way into the kitchen to peer around, trying to identify the cause of the syncopated noise. Deciding that there was nothing of interest there, they returned to the living room.
Swallowing thickly, my throat feeling dry all of a sudden, I started taking short, gasping breaths. I felt like an observer, watching my hand extend outwards towards the cap. My other hand lifted on its own accord as well, grabbing the handle of the bottle and holding it steady as I twisted off the cap.
The voice, which I thought had given up, came roaring back with a desperation both familiar and shocking. This is it! You can pour it out. The sink is RIGHT THERE. Just…pour it out. Make a nice steak instead. Give the dogs a bath. Vacuum the carpets. Do a load of laundry. READ A BOOK. Please…you can choose to stop. Please.
As I sat in my chair in the living room, one dog stretched out on my lap, I eyed the pile of books collecting dust on my coffee table. I wondered where my determination had gone. It surely couldn’t have been smothered in less than a day. I played the recording of my bold claims this morning, watching myself pour out bottle after bottle after bottle. Listless fingers dropped my phone on the end table next to the coaster, upon which sat a glass of whiskey that I had yet to take a sip of.
Picking up the glass with a shaky hand, I raised it to my lips, hesitating yet again. I waited for the voice to cry out. To plead. To beg. To point out all the things I had told myself this morning. To remind me that I could still stop now and dump out the glass. I stared at the streaks of ice melting in the glass, mixing with the amber-colored liquid to create a beautiful meld of swirls in a cup.
Bringing it to my lips, I bared my teeth in a silent snarl, furious and disappointed with myself. I took a deep gulp, draining half the glass in one go. Smacking my lips together, I thought of nothing other than the fact that I had failed yet again. My head was quiet. My heart-rate steady. My breathing smooth, my hands no longer shaking. The raging voice a distant memory already, but the loathing and self-hatred settled over me like a warm blanket, familiar weight comfortable despite the staticky feeling. I brought the glass to my mouth again, and as I drained my first of many for the evening, the sides of my finger brushed my cheek and came away wet.