That Story I Don’t Want to Tell

Curses you evil blog! I am now in the habit of talking about my demons, letting them go and laughing about them. I’m in such a habit that even the stories I want to conveniently leave out are itching to be published and I have to get out of their way, regardless of how humiliating or difficult they are.

Besides, telling this particular story could actually be helpful to person in my life whom I adore and  know is silently struggling right now. So here goes nothing. I don’t love New Year’s Eve. I’m not talking about New Years Eve the horrible looking movie featuring some of the most grating actors on the planet. I’m talking about the holiday New Year’s Eve. You know the one where people who don’t usually drink decide to ingest kiddie pools filled with alcohol, put on a ridiculous hat and then unleash themselves onto a crowded public street? Yeah that one. I avoided talking about , blogging about and even really participating in New Year’s Eve this year.I didn’t even like it that much when I was drinking. I mean it gave me an excuse to get really fucked up but so did major events like losing my keys, getting a new job, finding my keys, and bathing my dog. New Years Eve was always a total letdown. Especially in 2008.

On December 29th me and my ex were evicted from our apartment. I thought I could drink like a Hemingway and do coke like a Sheen and not pay our rent. Our landlord thought differently. We had to stay at a friend’s where we basically drank and got fucked up until we figured out what we were doing. Deep inside of me I knew this was the end of the road. End of the road for my relationship.End of the road for my behaviors. And the end of the road for my drinking. I had been struggling to quit for years and knew that my life was falling apart as direct result of it. The worst part was that I knew that I had to ask for help. I had to change and had to rely on my family. I was going to do that but I needed to have my last drunken New years. Like most of the others before it, it was totally uneventful. I couldn’t drink myself out of this predicament and the three bottles of wine did nothing but make me tired. I was fucked and couldn’t hide from or lie my way out of it. The 31st turned into the 1st when I also drank simply to survive. January 2nd 2009 came and I came to and called my little brother. I tearfully asked for help and things started to change right away. By the 3rd, my whole family knew and by the 4th my life was on a new trajectory.But it all started and ended with New Year’s Eve.

For some reason this year this story, the story of me hitting rock muthafucking bottom was a tough one for me to tell or to think about. I don’t know why. Most recovered drunks tell their bottoming out story in the same manner bragging fisherman talk about catching the big one. And I always did too. I was always proud that I scraped myself out of the gutter and even though I was still proud, the story itself didn’t seem important anymore. That’s where I was wrong. Anybody who survives addition and alcoholism has an important story to tell. It’s a tale that could really help somebody out.  So this  person I grew up loving and holding in my heart as a child and then became closer to as an adult needs to know that the shitstorm will blow over , laughter will come back and  healing is really possible. That story I didn’t want to tell is proof of all of these things and so much more.