Losing All My Excuses

Wednesday is about books and reading, and sometimes just my own writing. Today’s is the latest in an ongoing series of “Short Non Fiction Stories”.

When I was 20 and 21 and 22, I enjoyed drinking as a form of distraction. It wasn’t every day, it wasn’t always every week, but sometimes it was for many days in a row. A party-vibe would start and I had to hope that it might continue.

One time, in my first year, so perhaps I was only 18, a guy bought a bunch of beers to celebrate his birthday. He needed a drinking companion, so I cleared my schedule. We easily worked through the box of two dozen beers he had purchased. I thought it quite funny to go to my English class after about four hours of drinking. I even took three bottles up with me to knock back while we
learned a bit more about “At The Bay”.

When I swaggered my way back down the hill, gauzy haze and gusts of wind, it was too late to stop. So we drove down to the bottle store to get more.

Later that night we went to a movie - a bunch of us. Because it was a Tuesday, and there weren’t many bars open late back then, besides we couldn’t always get in. Not all of us. Some in the crew looked younger than the age. There were fake IDs, but they seemed to work better on the busier nights. A tick-the-box exercise for the bouncers.

I drank 36 beers that day. And that night. And I held onto that stat with pride. For a time. I didn’t feel filthy or unwell, or on edge, or even particularly full. That
was my awareness that I had a problem. The problem was different to any of the ‘proper’ drinking problems. It felt as much like a solution as it did any actual issue.

And so for many years that was it.

Invincible.

Bulletproof.

The ability to remember almost everything that happened, all while consuming alcohol at a rate that made it seem impossible to believe I wasn’t trying to forget.

But I didn’t exactly have that much to forget. A lethargy perhaps. Some inertia. A very privileged form of anxiety - but to even use that word is to suggest it was something unmanufactured, something predetermined. It was definitely sad, probably heartbreaking on reflection. But I found a way out. And up. And I can’t ever seem to quite put my finger on how it started, or when it ended. More worryingly, why it ever happened.

It’s with me. Forever. But not in a crushing way. More something that nags, like when you lose something important, or favourite; something you had just a second ago. Something very good. You had it, and when you did, the world wasn’t so bad at all. Now it’s gone the world is better, but you lost all your excuses.