Posted in Blog, Nonfiction, Ongoing Story

The Alcohol Cassettes Part Three

The following stories told in the first person were recorded on a cassette tape recorder on the evening of February 11th, 2015 in a local bar. The speaker was a man of medium build, sitting alone, telling these tales to whomever happened to be nearest. The author received permission from both the speaker and the establishment’s owner to record these sagas. The identity of the speaker has never been revealed nor authenticated, and inquiries into such a matter remain inconsequential. As such, they will not be made here.

 

You always get the best seats at the bar during the day. And what most people don’t know, young lady, is that bars serve the best breakfast. True bar owners open early in the day for the old timers like myself that have been out all night drinking and wake up hungover looking for a friendly face to serve us eggs and bacon.

 

You can’t just walk into a Denny’s or IHOP when you are my age, alone, and reaking of liquor and cigarettes. People look at you funny, hide their kids, move to a table further away. Not only does that make me feel bad about myself, but it makes me feel bad for them. So I just rather go somewhere else where everybody is wrestling the aftermath of the night before.

 

And of course, they serve drinks all day here. I can get a screwdriver and three shots of Wild Turkey here, and oh my, young lady, there is no better cure for the hangover blues like a breakfast of eggs and bacon and Wild Turkey chasers.

 

Don’t you go ordering that though, miss. That is only for sad and lonely old men who have given up on themselves. You’ve got a lot to live for young lady, I’m sure of it. Even though I don’t know much about you, I can see from the way you dress and the way you carry yourself that you are successful, and even if you aren’t as successful as you want to be, you are going to be that successful one day no matter what. Anyways, I walk in here, usually around 11 or 12, depending on when my hangover gets so bad that I can’t stay in bed any longer.

 

I hit the bathroom right away, as I’m sure you know that you’ve always got to pee immediately after you get up. After I’ve relieved myself, pardon my french ma’am, I wobble over to the sink and splash some water in my face. Then I look in the mirror, and see how disgusted I am with the man looking back at me this time.

 

And I’m pretty disgusted every time, let me tell you. Anyways, after that I will walk out to the bar, and the owner will come by, set a tall bottle of water next to me, along with some orange juice and Absolut, and three shots of Wild Turkey, as I told you before. I’ll chug the bottle of water in a vain attempt to combat the pounding headache and gruesome body aches that I’m experiencing.

 

That always does nothing, but it does feel good to think that it might. So I keep doing it. Then, with reluctance I turn to the screwdriver, and I chug that as well. That alleviates some of the body aches, but I’m still in a lot of discomfort. I know that the alcohol just makes everything worse, but it does make me feel better in the short term, and isn’t that what we are all after?

 

Feeling better right now?

Posted in Blog, Nonfiction

Two Tickets

The toughest part of a break up is the loneliness that comes from having two of everything, but only being half of that now. The concerts and memories that were supposed to be are now just a pair of paper memorandums sitting on your dresser. 
You could sell them. And in doing so, give up the chance of ever going to the concert with the person you were supposed too. Not that is was likely they were going to change their minds and go anyway. 
But giving voice to the fact makes it permanent and unavoidable. You will never get to see that show with the person you really want too.
You could take somebody else. But in doing that forever marking any memories that you make there with grief and suffering. And finding somebody who is just a glaringly alone as you are is a task, and finding someone who will admit they don’t have any plans for that night or any night for that matter, is a struggle not worth the effort.
You could go alone. And give life to the fact that you feel alone no matter how many people are around you. 
And finally, and probably the most likely outcome, you can stay home. Stay home and look at the paper heart breaks laying on the dresser all night, in between crying spells and long hours wrapped in ball in bed while the sun is still out.
But I do have two tickets. I really only have one, and it belongs to one person. 
Would you go to this show with me?
I miss you.
I’m sorry.
Please come home.

The following stories told in the first person were recorded on a cassette tape recorder on the evening of February 11th, 2015 in a local bar. The speaker was a man of medium build, sitting alone, telling these tales to whomever happened to be nearest. The author received permission from both the speaker and the establishment’s owner to record these sagas. The identity of the speaker has never been revealed nor authenticated, and inquiries into such a matter remain inconsequential. As such, they will not be made here.

 

I woke up, and the hangover hit me in the head like a freight truck. I stumbled to the bathroom, and caught a glimpse of a neandrethal looking creature staring back at me. I was drooling stupid, and I knew there was no chance of me getting to my finals in the state that I was in.

 

So I started to drink. That was the only logical choice, because otherwise I would have only be able to curl up into a ball for the rest of the day and cry myself to sleep over my failed final exams. That wasn’t gonna happen. No sir, not if I had anything to do about it.

 

I figured I needed to drink enough to overcome the hangover, and then a good deal more to get in the zone for finals. Looking back now, I see that my thinking was even more fucked up hung over than it was drunk. But anyways, I started mixing vodka with whatever pop my roommate left in the fridge, usually diet cherry coke, whatever the fuck that is.

 

I didn’t use the pop for the flavor. I used it to speed up the rate at which I could drink. And diet fucking cherry coke worked just as well as anything would have in that particular situation.

 

I drank one glass, two, three, and four. I figured that I should have one more before I left, to get myself fully prepared to go for the next eight hours without a drink. Man, that was a real shot in the nuts now that I think about it.

 

I’m really ashamed of this next part, and I hope you fine young gentlemen and lady will not judge me too harshly from this story. I hopped in the car, and started driving my drunk ass the 45 minutes East to my college campus, over there on ******** and ********, right over by ***. You know?

 

Yea I was in no condition to be driving, and I knew it. But I did it, followed all the traffic laws and speed limits and made it there. I knew that I had been wasting a lot of time that morning making drinks and trying to find that episode from this show, oh fuck what is the name of it? Well anyways, I was super late by the time that I got there, and I started walking as fast as my drunk legs would carry me.

 

Not a minute into my trek, I had to pee. And the type of pee after you’ve been drinking and drinking for hours and haven’t visited the bathroom the whole time, and then all at once your bladder says “Fuck this!!” you know what I mean?

 

So it was still pretty dark out, and I just whipped out my . . . sorry ma’am, I just started peeing right there in the wide open parking lot. It was early enough that nobody else was there, as far as I was able to see that is.

 

Some poor bastard was probably walking through the parking lot at the same time as me, and oh jesus what a sight I must have been.

 

The drunkest son of a bitch in the world on a Tuesday morning at 6 a.m. whipping out his . . . sorry ma’am . . . urinating in the middle of a parking lot on a college campus.

 

Jesus fucking christ.

The Alcohol Cassettes Part Two

I have created this emptiness. This paradise of the lonesome. I have done it on purpose. Or that is what I keep telling myself. I act as if I have pushed everyone away on purpose. Which is partially true. I don’t want to have people rely on me. I will only let them down.

 

Friendship is tiresome. Having to constantly talk to someone, hang out with them, even when you would rather be doing something else, by yourself, is a hassle. The benefits that you get from companionship are far outweighed by it’s requirements and maintanence fees.

 

Why not skip it altogether? Watching a movie by yourself is not the worst thing in the world. In fact, it’s not even that bad at all. It’s actually quite enjoyable. Sitting at home, reading and listening to music that you want to listen too, and not having to switch back and forth between what they want to listen too, is pretty sweet in fact.

 

The question becomes did I do this on purpose? Certainly it would appear so, as I am more often by myself than spending time with others. I don’t enjoy going out, and would rather stay in. I’ve pushed away most everyone that has tried to be my friend, or tried to get close to me. But in most instances, it would appear that I did not do that on purpose, but that they left me.

 

So which is it? Was it my doing or theirs? Am I really a loner by choice or by circumstance? I would imagine that it is a little bit of both. My personality and my previous experiences of rejection and isolation have turned me into someone that nobody wants to be around for too long. I’m great at making friends, but I have no desire to keep them.

 

And I imagine that they don’t desire that either.

Self Imposed Exile

The following stories told in the first person were recorded on a cassette tape recorder on the evening of February 11th, 2015 in a local bar. The speaker was a man of medium build, sitting alone, telling these tales to whomever happened to be nearest. The author received permission from both the speaker and the establishment’s owner to record these sagas. The identity of the speaker has never been revealed nor authenticated, and inquiries into such a matter remain inconsequential. As such, they will not be made here.

 

It was finals week, and I was drinking. And drinking is putting it mildly. I was knocking myself unconscious every night of the week, and then recovering the entire next day. I would wake up and get hit in the face by the looming hang over. I would stumble to the kitchen and chug at least two bottles of water, in the hopes that this would ease the suffering. It never did.

 

I would then grab two ibuprofen from the medicine cupboard, and take them along with my morning medication. I was taking medicine for depression, but I don’t know why because I kept drinking away the benefits every day.

 

I’ve gotten off track. It was finals week, and I had been drinking heavily every night. But it wasn’t a problem at that point, in my mind at least, because it was only at night and nobody could tell what I was doing.

 

So I started drinking in the morning too. I figured I would drink a little, go to class, and by the time the booze was wearing off I would come home and go to sleep. Probably drink some more first, of course, but then pass out. It seemed like a perfect plan, because after all I did not care one bit about how I did on those finals. I was fully expecting to fail the classes anyway, so drinking before having to sit through them seemed like a great plan.

 

Big fucking mistake.

 

I just kept thinking to myself that I would get all my work done that night, I would have a few drinks and it would be a good time. But after I had a few drinks, I really did not want to do any of my work. And that was fine because I was drinking and I felt pretty good.

 

Until the next morning.

The Alcohol Cassettes Part One

One of the most important things that I learned when I got clean and sober was that my depression hadn’t gone anywhere. It hadn’t gone away, or diminished at all. In fact, it grew and grew and came to be so pervasive in my being that it took all of my effort to keep myself from collapsing into a heap of tears and sobbing.

I don’t have good days and bad days. I have days where I have depression. That’s it. There is no alternative for me. Everyday I feel sad. Everyday I think about death. Everyday I wonder what it would be like to not wake up the next morning.

And then I get up, and I go through the motions of life. Because that’s all I have. I don’t feel joy the way a person should, I don’t have confidence in myself the way that others do.

I am reminded of a trip that I took to the hospital years ago. When asked to rate my pain on a scale of 1, being no pain, and 10, being the worst pain of my life, I said that it was a 10. I had been through this process many, many times before and I knew to expect suspicion and doubt. I was then made aware that an answer of 10 was a little ridiculous, and then critiqued and questioned about it for another 10 minutes. Eventually, I was told that maybe if my pain was that bad, I should reevaluate my baseline.

Meaning that if my pain was truly at a 10, but that normally my pain was at a 5, really I was only experiencing a 5 relative to my baseline. Although the pain that I was experiencing at this juncture in my life has long since gone away, I still find this experience relevant to my current situation.

Imagine being upset, really upset. And now imagine trying to figure out why you are upset, so that you can try and make yourself happy. Imagine searching and searching, never getting any closer, never gathering any more clues, never cracking the case. What do you do?

What do you do day after day after day? How long can you put on a happy face and pretend to interact witht the world the way everyone else does?

What does it mean to not feel this way? What is it like to forget your worries? How do you lose yourself in your work? How does it feel to love yourself for who you are?

The only thing that I can do is function, because that is what is expected of me. All I can do is float through daily life, coasting on autopilot, watching as the days turn into weeks turn into months, and then back into days. What is the alternative? To be positive? To exercise more? Medication? Therapy? I’ve stopped looking for a solution to the problem, and instead focused on weathering the storm.

Depression is a storm. It is an endless typhoon sucking up all the happiness and ignorance of life, and spitting out deprecation and sorrow.

All I can hope for is an umbrella.

Life amid the Break

The cruelest reality of life is not that it must one day end in death. It is that it keeps going, in complete disregard to everything within it. Time does not stop, even when we need it to the most. It ignores our pain, silences our pleas, and turns it’s nose up while we gravel.

 

The pain of being forgotten is the most acute. It is not from anger, but from not caring. What is worse? To be hated? Or to be useless?

 

Hours and days go by without the slightest perception of the suffering that they leave in their wake, and the victims of their their torment are granted no reprieve.

 

 

Indifference in an Hourglass

It finally clicked. She was finally able to understand her life, and what had led her down the path that she was on right now.

 

She had. She had done it all by herself, made all the decisions and called all the shots. She had been angry at other people, pointing to their mistreatment as the source of all of her woes. She would say to herself, “They just don’t understand. They don’t care about me or what I’m going through. They only care about themselves.” That was probably the biggest irony of it all. She was the one who only cared about herself, and completely disregarded the feelings of those around her.

 

Her problem wasn’t that she abused drugs. It was that she abused those who loved her. She chose the chemicals over the people that did everything in their power to help her. And it wasn’t a one time thing. It was a recurring decision that she had made. Time and time again it would come down to a simple choice between her loved ones or the drugs. And time and time again she had devasted her loved ones by choosing the drugs.

 

It’s like a spouse that continually cheats on their partner, but blames their cheating on the spouse. They wouldn’t have to cheat if they were listened too, if their problems were taken into consideration once in a while. How many times would someone allow their partner to cheat on them before finally calling it quits. Before giving up on them once and for all, because they made their priorities extremely clear.

 

It was a lot for her to take in all at once. She had thought these same things before, but when she finally began to comprehend how much damage she had done, before now she had just stopped admitting her faults and reverted back to blaming others.

 

In all actually, the actions of others may have played a part, they may have played a very big part. And eventually those actions may have to be addressed. But she was the one that was preventing that from happening. How could she expect everyone else to look at themselves and change their behavior if she wasn’t willing to do the same for them. And her behavior so outweighed theirs that it was almost comical that she had pointed it out in the first place.

 

She began to rethink some of the issues that she had brought up about them in the past. At this point she started to realize that she had been lying to herself just as much as she had been lying to everyone else. She had to keep telling herself that everybody else was doing things wrong in order to live with her own decisions day to day.

 

When a person realizes that they can no longer trust their own judgement, it shatters any sense of self that they had. She was a broken person. She did not feel whole anymore. But she knew the truth now, and that comforted her. She felt relief that she never had to hide any of this again. Like when a best friend confides in you that they have done something to betray your trust. Anger is the initial response, but as that fades away relief becomes the primary feeling because now you know that they care enough about you that they had to come clean.

 

She knew that she had a lot of making up to do. She wasn’t even sure if all the making up would be possible. Would it be feasible for her to mend all of the fences and repair all of the bridges that she had destroyed in her crusade for intoxication? Nobody could possibly know the answer to that question.

 

She knew that if somebody had treated her the way that she had treated so many of her close friends and family that she would have been long gone by now. That made her feel exponentially more guilt, but also intense love and a desire to return that devotion that they had so selflessly shown her.

 

She knew what needed to be done. She had to stay truthful.

 

She had to be honest.

Being honest

(The following story is duplicated here verebatim from a handwritten journal. The journal is a blue composition journal, college-ruled, and Staples brand. The author of the journal is in the throws of a euphoric and dysphoric addiction with adderall. Speculation as to the author’s identity is intriguing, but better left discovered somewhere else)

 

That was a really eye opening experience to what Adderall can do to your body and to your perception. The pounding heart and chest pain was the most concerning part because i think I was very close to having a heart attack.

 

Or at least that is what I was thinking the entire time. The sleep deprivation was causing additional anxiety on top of that, and the extremely high doses that I had taken was altering my reality, and that was the most terrifying part.

 

It is strange to think that just a change in your perception could be such a scary thing, but I guess that has always been the way I respond to mind-altering drugs. I have always been extremely sensitive to alterations and even the smallest changes cause huge anxiety for me. Any sort of psychoactive drug has caused the same increase in panic.

 

I’m not sure why this is. It probably has something to do with the thought that it will be permanent. I think that that thought is probably highly unlikely and the actual dangers lie in the physiological effects of the drugs.

 

Heart attack is a real threat with the behavior I was guilty of, and that is a very, very serious thing.

 

Obviously I should never, never take that much medication no matter what it is. But that is a recurring problem that I have. It happened with pain meds, anxiety meds, sleep meds, and now ADD meds. It is strange that I would get so much anxiety from changes in perception because it would seem that I am doing all that I can to change it.

 

But I think that it is more of a desire to change how I feel. I always want to feel better and I use whatever I can to do that. My Adderall experience this weekend was terrible, and I have got to be smarter about how I use my medications. If I am going to use this kind of medication I cannot take massive amounts at a time until I run out.

 

That is number one. Number two is that I need to start striving to use the medication for the reason that it is supposed to be used for. That probably goes hand and hand with the first one. These things are easier said than done, but my luck will run out eventually.

 

This body can’t handle that much abuse for that long. Eventually something will give out. ****** has put up with so much shit with me, and that has got to change. She does not deserve it. She deserves better treatment. She deserves more consideration than that. My goal should be each week for my medication to not come up in my way.

 

I shouldn’t bring it up and my behavior should not bring it up, and by that I mean I should not do anything that would cause attention to be dream to my medication. Not so that I can get away with anything but rather to not allow it to be so prominent in our daily lives. Probably it should only come up once a week, maybe every other week. And that includes talking with my doctor and getting refills and things of that nature.

 

My attention is better spent on other things. Every time I run out of medication and resign to not taking it, and when my attention turns to my life things get better, easier, less stressful. It shouldn’t be something that I think about nonstop. Look at how many pages in this notebook that I have filled talking about my medication. No more!!

 

Religion is not a special thing. When you look at a religion from the perspective of it as a way in which people make sense of their lives and the world around them, and not a collection of beliefs and rituals, they become identical to things like culture, ethnic groups, age groups. Any sort of way that people define who they are and who everyone else is. Things that religion creates are, however, identical to the things that are created from ignorance and fear. People do not enjoy not knowing things like who creeated the world, and what happens after they die.

 

They think that they deserve to know what the meaning of their life is. Firstly, why does there have to exist a meaning for life? How does everyone that is living and who has ever lived and who will ever live each have a specialmeaning for their life? Or collectively what is the neccessity for the explanation of consciousness and the special meaning that it has? Whether or not there exists a meaning for life, collectively or individually, it will continue to exist. And with the passage of time, one thing has continued to be true without the least bit of advancement; no one can say with any truth or any certainty what happens when life ends.

 

I guess that is a bad way to word it. No one can say that there is a life that exists after one ends. No one can tell another person the meaning of that person’s life, because it is impossible to know. No, it is impossible to be proven to even exist. How can one person know what existance is like beyond their own?

 

How can they perceive things, truly, beyond their own perception? It is not possible. It is possible to guess, and even very accurately and intelligently, but it is truly impossible to know the experience of anything outside of yourself. And what does that show? That shows that there is no way to empirically prove anything about life from a standpoint of meaning or purpose.

 

to be continued . . .

The Adderall Diaries Part Fifteen

He layed in bed with his back turned to his cell phone laying on the ground. He knew she hadn’t texted back and that she probably never would. But he could not get the thought out of his mind that maybe she had and he hadn’t felt the vibration. He tried to go to sleep, he closed his eyes as tightly as he could, but to no avail.

 

Finally, he gave into temptation and rolled over. He picked up the phone, and for a few milliseconds held on to hope that she may have responded.

 

But then his wallpaper picture appeared, illuminating the room. He looked at the sent messages, and saw that they had been read. He knew that she didn’t intend to respond, but he just couldn’t understand why. He was hurting. Hurting bad. He just wanted her to say something to him, to tell him that she thought about him as much as he did her. He could not quash the feeling that they would eventually reconcile and get back together. Although that hope was fading daily.

 

With every text that she did send to him, even when they were being cordial with each other, he could sense the distance growing and growing. He didn’t know how he could stop it, how he could put back on the charm that he had had when they first started dating. What had happened to those days? Why was he now so incapable of reading her? They had been together for years and shared secrets with each other that nobody else in the world knew.

 

But that hole in his heart stayed, and all he wanted to do was fill it. He had other things to concern himself with. He needed to stay clean. He needed to avoid trying to avoid his feelings. He needed to feel this lonliness. This was normal, this is the way that it should feel when you have come out the wrong side of a relationship.

 

When he thought about it honestly, which was not very often because he never had liked being honest with himself, he knew that eventually these feelings would fade with time, and that he would move on and she would move on and both of them would be fine. He wasn’t sure whether or not that was the best for them, but nevertheless time would heal things. Time always did. Time was the best drug to fix problems that he had. It was just a matter of being patient enough to allow it to work.

 

He had become such a good liar from his days as an addict that sometimes he didn’t know whether or not he actually felt a certain way. The key to telling a convincing lie is to believe what you are saying is telling the truth. The problem with that becomes when you believe the lies that you are telling for so long, eventually you become ignorant of the truth.

 

He was lonely. Very lonely. But he knew that he should be lonely. That was the right decision, even though it was the most uncomfortable. But lonliness would not bring destruction and chaos to his life like the drugs that he so often sought out to make him feel better.

 

Lonliness was lonliness. Plain and simple.

Being lonely