This is a segment from my memoir-in-progress, "How to Live With a Drunk." It was most recently presented at the Intermedia Arts reading at the Minneapolis Public Library in June, 2008. The successful reception of this piece has convinced me that 1) my work is on the right track and 2) I really love microphones.
Dear Alcohol,
You really piss me off sometimes.
Do you know what it’s like to be so angry you can’t see straight anymore? Angry enough to spit nails? Or maybe spit fire? Or walk through hot lava and not even feel your blood boiling? I’m so angry I could rip someone’s face off and not feel a single pang of guilt and I am not a violent person, by nature. I’m usually a pretty happy person. I’m even a happy drunk, I don’t get all mopey or mean. I usually don’t even cry.
Alcohol, the anger leads to violence and when external violence isn’t appropriate, you have to do something with it so you bring it inside. And I never learned how to do anything like “go running” or “play sports” to deal with it, so I’ve been keeping it all inside. Do you know what that has done? My stomach is a rumbling pit of acid and my intestines are in knots and the heat fills my body with a venom that I just can’t restrain. That makes me say nasty things. Don’t tell me to calm down. Don’t tell me to back off. Don’t tell me I’m imagining things. Talk to me. I ignored the problem for too long. I gave you everything and you couldn’t stop drinking. You took my love, peeled the label off and drank it down and tossed it, empty, into the garbage.
I’m angry. I am angry at you for interfering with my family and for stealing the love of my partner and for threatening my safety again and again. I want to light fire to every fermented sugar that ignited every harsh word and left behind every sticky spot on the counter. There is not enough soap in the world to scrub away the rings left behind. Even the bloated lime slices still smell like gin. The hallway smells like beer. Just one drop leaves that smell.
Alcohol, I’m bitter. How could I not be insanely jealous of all the times she chose you instead of me? You made her leave me. Even when she was sitting right there beside me, she was gone. Gone inside herself to a place I couldn’t follow, no matter how many drinks I had along side her. I couldn’t follow.
I don’t want to be left alone all the time. I don’t want to be the only one here, standing on the shore, holding your empties and wishing I could crawl under the sand and die. I can’t hide from the emptiness that the leaving leaves.
I loved her. She loved you more. I had nothing to offer that could compare to your power. I am powerless. All the rage and grief and sadness in the world are nothing compared to a drink in a drunk.
I will have no peace unless I admit that you win. You win: She loved you more. You win: I couldn’t stop her from drinking. You win: Bodies are fragile and minds are fragile and when someone is broken, I can’t fix it. You win: I can’t make someone else choose me over one more drink.
You seem so harmless. You smell good. You bring warm feelings or sometimes declarations of love or sometimes the boldness to say just the right thing at just the right time; and then you get ugly. You’ve shown me more ugliness in the past thirty years than I ever want to see again. You have released more dark words from more blackened hearts than anyone should hear. You unleash the anger and then you fuel it. You inspire the lust and turn it into hate. You become rage. You spark violence. You are present in the darkest moments.
I should hate you but I can’t. I hate what you’ve done to the people I love. I hate how insidious you are. I hate this pain. There is no way I can win this battle against you. I just can’t win. So I’ve got to stop fighting.
Dear Alcohol,
You really piss me off sometimes.
Do you know what it’s like to be so angry you can’t see straight anymore? Angry enough to spit nails? Or maybe spit fire? Or walk through hot lava and not even feel your blood boiling? I’m so angry I could rip someone’s face off and not feel a single pang of guilt and I am not a violent person, by nature. I’m usually a pretty happy person. I’m even a happy drunk, I don’t get all mopey or mean. I usually don’t even cry.
Alcohol, the anger leads to violence and when external violence isn’t appropriate, you have to do something with it so you bring it inside. And I never learned how to do anything like “go running” or “play sports” to deal with it, so I’ve been keeping it all inside. Do you know what that has done? My stomach is a rumbling pit of acid and my intestines are in knots and the heat fills my body with a venom that I just can’t restrain. That makes me say nasty things. Don’t tell me to calm down. Don’t tell me to back off. Don’t tell me I’m imagining things. Talk to me. I ignored the problem for too long. I gave you everything and you couldn’t stop drinking. You took my love, peeled the label off and drank it down and tossed it, empty, into the garbage.
I’m angry. I am angry at you for interfering with my family and for stealing the love of my partner and for threatening my safety again and again. I want to light fire to every fermented sugar that ignited every harsh word and left behind every sticky spot on the counter. There is not enough soap in the world to scrub away the rings left behind. Even the bloated lime slices still smell like gin. The hallway smells like beer. Just one drop leaves that smell.
Alcohol, I’m bitter. How could I not be insanely jealous of all the times she chose you instead of me? You made her leave me. Even when she was sitting right there beside me, she was gone. Gone inside herself to a place I couldn’t follow, no matter how many drinks I had along side her. I couldn’t follow.
I don’t want to be left alone all the time. I don’t want to be the only one here, standing on the shore, holding your empties and wishing I could crawl under the sand and die. I can’t hide from the emptiness that the leaving leaves.
I loved her. She loved you more. I had nothing to offer that could compare to your power. I am powerless. All the rage and grief and sadness in the world are nothing compared to a drink in a drunk.
I will have no peace unless I admit that you win. You win: She loved you more. You win: I couldn’t stop her from drinking. You win: Bodies are fragile and minds are fragile and when someone is broken, I can’t fix it. You win: I can’t make someone else choose me over one more drink.
You seem so harmless. You smell good. You bring warm feelings or sometimes declarations of love or sometimes the boldness to say just the right thing at just the right time; and then you get ugly. You’ve shown me more ugliness in the past thirty years than I ever want to see again. You have released more dark words from more blackened hearts than anyone should hear. You unleash the anger and then you fuel it. You inspire the lust and turn it into hate. You become rage. You spark violence. You are present in the darkest moments.
I should hate you but I can’t. I hate what you’ve done to the people I love. I hate how insidious you are. I hate this pain. There is no way I can win this battle against you. I just can’t win. So I’ve got to stop fighting.
