OBSESSION

OBSESSION

My obsession is grim and dirty; a secret I keep from myself. When , yesterday, I told my brother my partner does not particularly like alcohol; not only because she doesn’t enjoy it but maybe also because members of her family have drunk in such quantities in the past that it made them not only unpleasant people at times but made them dark and rotten so that their bodies failed them way before they were meant to; he may not have known I was also including myself, then again he may have done but remained kind in his silence.

I can talk about how much I would like to be rich enough to be able to buy the very best of whiskies and I can maybe pretend that it would be a rare enough occasion that I would drink it and then maybe only in some peat smelling, wood smelling, cabin amongst the heather that I would sit down for that wee dram.

I would like that romantic interpretation but to be honest, my stomach tenses with pleasure as my fingers feel the raw rip of the cap of a whisky bottle, and my ears tingle with anticipation as I hear its brief tear. At the same time, I have the slight worry that members of the household will remember hearing that telltale sound just a short time ago and wonder that the bottle is now empty so soon.

I have rules but they are pale rules. I don’t drink before six because I know people would be shocked and I often don’t drink late because I want to be legal when next I drive.

People look askance at the idea of drinking for pleasure rather than drinking occasionally to be sociable. However, I no longer drink for pleasure or if I do it is a warped sort of pleasure. I drink for sour habit, I drink to say; this is the end of the day and now I am officially off duty and the pale glass besides me means I don’t need to drive or answer the phone or be ‘measured’ or whatever it is I am meant to be at work.

I drink for comfort and to know that when I fall asleep it will be almost instant, instead of that jangled sweaty wriggle in bed where thoughts invade the space I have made for peace.

I hate to say it but that word peace represents what alcohol means to me. My thoughts blur and blank themselves; the tension leaves me. I don’t have to be at all. Sometimes my need to escape from being me is almost overwhelming and alcohol seems to provide a convenient short cut to make that happen.

I know it doesn’t help really. I have been given the leaflets addictions CPN’s carry round with them and dutifully breathed into their monitors and dutifully nodded my head at their advice and then rapidly ignored it.

I wonder at it and just now, am thinking of something someone who I am rapidly thinking of as a friend, recently said about their unhealthy lifestyle.

When I stop drinking, I quickly feel more alert and more relaxed; my breath no longer stinks nor does my skin reek. I sleep better, feel more positive. It is easier to think and easier to speak. I do things in the evening and no longer spend the evening mainly slumped in my favourite chair doing nothing much at all.

Likewise, when I eat better and start slowly, slowly, to lose some of the excess weight that has gathered around my body. I feel better. It becomes easier to walk to the top of the stairs. I contemplate longer walks. I don’t have trouble balancing when putting on socks or problems breathing easily when bending over to tie my laces.

The logic is plain and stark and so completely obvious. Less food, fat, chips, less whisky and beer and cider; more exercise. Yep! With that I feel so much better, more alert, brighter; much more friendly and much more fun to be around.

The message does not really need made to me; nor does the point that my lifestyle and lifespan will become more and more limited if I carry on in this fashion.

And so why am I already looking forward to the whisky, left over from last night, that sits on the cushion besides me? I do not know.

I think there is something utterly beguiling about the things that are bad for me – when I am around them I feel looked after and treated. I feel safe and able to relax into the nearest version of me that I can cope with. If I look too deeply, I see a person I despise more than any other being that ever existed. Those brief excursions that offer the semblance of oblivion; keep me safe from an inner life and existence that I cannot face.

The thought of being shiny faced and healthy and positive. The thought of being athletic again, or bright with words and phrases. I know without a doubt that I yearn for it and I know those rare occasions when I achieve it; my life flourishes. But that person is not me. I was never one of the smiley ‘in crowd’ and never free of darkness; able to seek simplicity and purity and joy without any barrier in the way.

Even without alcohol, I live many removes from everyday life. I live behind muslin, I tread through treacle, my thoughts stir far too slowly to get a joke or make people laugh. And with alcohol I can hide from that; I can hide from my thoughts, the things people say are my delusions, from the slowness of my internal world.

I not only fear the world of normality and joy I really, really, fear that I will never be able to achieve and bask in it. That even without alcohol I will not be able to bring my version of delight into the lives of those I love so very, very, much.

And yet there is something that sticks in my throat when I say I prefer not to be me. Maybe when I think of an afternoon of laughter such as that we have just had and which seems to be more and more the norm. Maybe the loneliness and the batter of thoughts I do not even want to think about are slowly dripping out of my life.

Maybe as these dark times become more and more distant, I might dare to believe the brightness is slowly becoming my new me and maybe with that realisation I will not need to hide from it so desperately.

(Photos, whisky in the garden September 2022, Geilstone Gardens September 2022)