I started drinking again. Last night I polished off a four pack of that faux-Champagne shit. To borrow from Was Not Was "she made Champagne out of Sprite and cheap wine, like a chemist". Two sips in and I already felt the headache building behind my eyes. No worries. Pop some Advil, chase it down with the fizzy, and keep going.
Four cans of gutter wine and six tabs of ibuprofen later and here I am - not feeling too bad either in body or spirit. My liver might be whining, but fuck 'im. The brain, man. The brain is more important. And my poor brain needed a break.
What brought this on, after a full year of sobriety? Well, first, check the facts: to be clear, I did not get drunk. Not off those glorified wine-coolers. That's why I bought them - I wanted to ease back into it. Yes, I have a bottle of V hidden behind my desk - it's been there since last year - but I'm saving that until I prove to myself I can handle it. The next thing to try is some real, honest to God wine. Only then will I crack the paper on the hard stuff.
Anyway, what brought this on?
Blame Hurricane Harvey, that bastard. Blew me right off the wagon.
MW quit her job on the Friday Harvey came knocking. My office then closed for an entire week during the floods. For ten days we were basically housebound together.
Ten days; nowhere to go, nothing to do but allow MW's HD dementia to fill the house like flood water.
Since this is for the record, I don't want to overstate things. MW did spend a lot of that time glued to the TV watching the drama. She became obsessed with the story of a lady who died in the elevator of a hotel. Anyway, that focused much of her energy. Also, on the third day, we were able to get out and drive around some and go walking. So it wasn't like we were snowbound 24/7 without comfort. Nevertheless, after the news coverage died down and things returned to normal and I was able to return to work; without a job, MW had nothing to do but stay home and go mad.
The primary target of MWs anger was the ex-supervisor who had taken away her part-time hours. He is just as bad Hitler. And, because he also happens to be gay, she no longer likes homosexuals - even refusing to do business at a store where the proprietor was obviously homosexual. "I don't like gays right now," she explained to me later as we were driving away.
It was - and continues to be - a relentless and classic persecution complex. Everybody there yelled at her all the time, they hated her and wanted her gone. They are all evil. Evil as Hitler.
And as irrational and unpleasant as these tirades are, I encourage them because the alternative is usually white-hot rage directed towards me. Terrifying, bare-toothed fury followed by an insistence that we sit together because she's lonely.
This behavior builds and builds and then two nights ago MW storms into the front room where I sleep on a mattress on the floor at one in the morning and yells at me because the nightlight in the hallway isn't lit.
And that's when I knew I had to start drinking again.
Oh sure, I've been scolded worse for less, but by then I'd reached my saturation point. Indeed, the nightlight hadn't been turned on, but the other nightlight in the bathroom was. As was the one in the living room, etc.. So, as MW is accusing me of trying to harm her by making her walk around in the dark (even though, as she's standing in the hall to make her point, there is abundant light coming from the bathroom/living room/entryway/etc.), I nod my head, apologize profusely over and over again, and resign myself to drink.
I have to. I can't do it anymore; at least, not sober.
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