I was always a little afraid of pills. Taking one Quaalude and waiting an impatient hour for the effects had, in the past, led me to take a second Quaalude, only to regret it later, after the first one took effect.
Administering the proper dosage of alcohol to achieve the desired effect seemed more tolerable. Not strong enough? Switch from scotch and water to scotch on the rocks. Not fast enough? Use less ice. I felt more in control with my alcohol (italicized, because alcohol was my little baby: she never left me down).
Right before my last relapse, after having just gotten out of the hospital for an operation for stomach hernias, I played Doctor with my prescribed pain medications. I took more than the prescribed dosage because I wanted quick relief. I was in pain. Then I didn’t wait long enough for the next prescribed dosage time. Before you know it, I was immobile on the sidewalk, crazed, and an ambulance was summoned by a passing stranger (apparently). Back to the hospital I went, having been just released a few short hours earlier.
If it takes eight pills to kill you, I used to feel safe taking six, and then two hours later I'd start wondering if it was safe to take another one or two. Never was it a case of wanting to commit suicide. I just wanted to get as high as possible as safely (crazy) as possible.
After the first drink, there is no other.
from All Drinking Aside (Rough Draft, Chapter 41)
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