Tangled Up In A Twist Of Fate 103/
Posted on May 24, 2013
Hi. I’m Tom and I’m a recovering alcoholic. I want a drink, badly. I getting tired of reading about people who are drinking “socially” and living normal lives. Why can’t I do that? Why is one not enough and ten not too many? Yes, I’ve had problems with alcohol. Hell, I had my first drink of whiskey at six and was a full blown alky by fifteen. I had help. I have an addictive personality. I always wanted to belong. I didn’t. Anyone who says I did lies. Back to booze. Lately I’ve been feeling the slings and arrows of aging. I can’t control my weight without drastic measures. I hurt. My memory is slipping and even when I take measures like leaving myself notes I forget stuff. I don’t want to be like this. Yes, there is the point “At least you’re alive” but I don’t want to be alive if it means gliding through life with a caretaker pointing me at places I’m supposed to be. I once wanted to live to be one hundred. Now I’m not so sure. I tell my doctor but nothing happens. I’m not rich so I can’t find the miracle cures or latest medical discoveries. A beer or two or five would probably get me into a state of inebriation that would make the thoughts that are bouncing around in my head slow down. I know it’s not good for me but what the hell am I supposed to do? To be truthful, I’m semi-suicidal but don’t have the balls to do it. I’ve got the means, but getting right down to it with my luck I’d screw up and wind up getting my stomach pumped. The effects of the drugs would leave me brain impaired or worse. This could become a crisis of faith but my faith is so shot that I truly believe that I’m on my own. God is out there, it’s just that He’s not watching every sparrow what with our predilection for killing one another off around the world. Actually I don’t blame Him, I haven’t exactly been a paragon of virtue and morality. So if I grow a set, it’s mostly on me. If not, I press on. Why? I have no idea. I serve no real purpose. Everybody doesn’t have to have a reason for existence. Some people are around just to take up space on the planet. That’s what I’ve seemed to be doing for most of my life. Above all I know that there are other people who’ve had it a hell of a lot worse than I’ve had and are making an acceptable life out of what they’ve been dealt. I know I’m whining but what’s going on inside is getting to be too much for me to handle. It happens to all of us, we survive, sometimes. Sometimes the damage is permanent, sometimes it leaves scars that fester. Maybe my scars are festering.
Pray for me.