Avalanche

    An avalanche and then forgetful snow. This is how I would die. Death by alcohol. It would seem to comfort as it killed….

   I've said it before and I can and I will and I must say it again. Repetition ever reminds me that I must not repeat my actions. I repeat again that alcohol is my poison, my prison. A brick wall, a trap door, a cancer, a bad joke, an empty bottle, an excuse, a leaky faucet, a loan shark, a

broken promise, a cracked mirror, an earthquake, an avalanche, a train wreck, a recurring nightmare.

    Alcohol is my insanity. Yes, I repeat myself. Over and over. I repeat the words so that I do not repeat the actions. Retrain my brain. Repeat the words. To learn, to unlearn, to relearn. To live sober. Over and over.

 

(Sotto): I like Jim's use of words here. Words as approximations of facts. Analogies of addictions. Whistling in the dark: half-prayer, half fear. But Vatchi, I sense a sort of reckless solitude here on his part, don't you?

    "At least I'm not an addict." That's the sense of moral superiority I once had. Today, that statement would be sadly laughable. Too hung over to carry a bar tray full of drinks without spilling them. Asking co-workers to place the straight up martinis in front of the customers' placemats because my daily shakes wouldn't allow me to do so without spilling. Spill. Spill. Spill. Spill. Spill. Avalanche.

from All Drinking Aside (Rough Draft, Day 44)