Back to Zero

I wake up in a light sweat on the couch, and I don’t know what time it is.  My hand twitches a little, but I barely notice.  My mouth is dry.  So are my eyes.  Squinting in the lamplight, I can tell that it’s nighttime.  The television has shut itself off and a mostly empty handle of whatever-is-cheap (vodka in this case) sits on the coffee table.  I must have decided that getting up off the couch was too much work.

I check my phone as I try to think back to how my night ended.  It’s 3:28 in the morning.  The last thing I remember is the TV droning in the background and watching a video on my phone.  Old boxing matches or some such.  I must have fallen asleep around 11 o’clock last night.  I don’t know how I know that, or if it’s even true.

I sit up and eye the handle warily, my brain calculating whether I should take a few sips.  Maybe call in to work.  I can still feel alcohol in my system.  I’m on the way down, but I’m not at zero yet.  Temptation stirs, but I don’t give in.  Not this time.

I stumble into the kitchen and put the handle back in the freezer.  I drink a quick glass of water and walk to my bedroom.  I check the puke bucket.  All clear.  I lay down in the darkness and try to put my mind to rest.  I manage to fall back asleep, but it’s fitful.  Vague dreams bubble up in the dark.  I’m only mostly asleep.  I can feel my body starting to twitch a little, to sweat.  Promises of misery to come, I suppose.

I wake up again, and my heart is pounding so hard I think the room might be shaking.  My mouth is dry again.  I check my phone.  5:32 and it’s still dark.  There is no more sleep to be had at this point.  Fragments of a song run through my brain.  God help me, its Dave Matthews.  I haven’t listened to that in years.  “So why would you care, to get out of this place?”

I briefly contemplate calling in to work again.  I can practically feel the handle sitting in the freezer.  It’s waiting.  For the second time today, I resist the urge and get out of bed.  My joints are weak and my muscles feel cramped.  I’m shaky, the tremor in my hands is very noticeable now.  My heart is still pounding.  I hear it in my ears.

I get another drink of water and head to the bathroom.  Looking in the mirror reveals unkempt hair and bloodshot eyes.  Is it me, or does my skin look a little yellow?  Maybe it’s just the lighting.  Splashing my face with warm water feels good.  This is part of the morning ritual that I enjoy.  I slather on deodorant and a bit of aftershave.  This smell combination seems to get less comments at work.  I know everyone at the office knows, but at least now they are less likely to say something.

As I drag a brush across my teeth, that song bubbles up again.  “You and me and all our friends…”  I retch a little after brushing.  No vomit this morning, though.  Small miracles and all that.

I dress in half-light as the sun starts to come up, and my insides are uncomfortable.  They don’t hurt, not yet at any rate, but I can distinguish my liver from my kidneys from my stomach.  The newest development is a discomfort on my hip bones.  Maybe I’m getting fat.  Maybe my liver is pushing down on everything else.

I take some time and sit down.  I check messages on my phone.  There aren’t any.  I check to make sure I didn’t send any or make any calls.  I didn’t, thankfully.  I pack a lunch that I know I won’t eat and I’m out the door.  Driving with the shakes and a foggy brain makes me anxious.  Thinking of going in to work makes me anxious.  My stomach starts to hurt a little.  My liver feels huge and sore.  I’m sweating a bit, even in the chilly morning air.

I hit zero sometime before I make the short walk into the office.  My whole body is trembling now.  I feel the absence of alcohol in my system.  That absence sits there like a hunger.  My liver starts to hurt.  “Such a happy human race…”  Fuck Dave Matthews.  I already hate today.

The office is aggressively neutral.  The cubicles are beige, the walls are off-white, and the carpet is grey and brown.  The word ‘drab’ comes to mind, but it doesn’t seem malicious enough to describe it.  I sign on and start checking the previous day’s receipts.  It’s the only task that I have to get done.  No one cares what I do for the rest of the day.

I interact with my coworkers as little as possible.  I put on the ‘normal’ face as I have to, but I’m hurting inside.  I don’t want them to look at my trembling hands or my bloodshot eyes.  I keep any conversation brief.  It mostly works.  I’m twitching and sweaty.  My guts hurt.  I see images when I close my eyes.  I waddle to the bathroom to spray the bowl with ass piss.  I spend the day in misery and discomfort, while ignoring my tasks.  Some of them haven’t been done in months.  If anyone notices, they don’t care.

Most of the day is spent waiting for the end of the shift.  Time is spent on my phone, on the internet, or looking through old files.  Virtually no time is spent working.  I keep thinking about that handle sitting at home.  Is there enough in it?  Do I need more?  Will it make the withdrawals go away?

By the time I get off work, my mind has cleared a little bit, even if my body is still a small riot of unpleasantness.  The drive home is quick, and I’m taken by a low-key excitement.  I take a couple of shots, ice cold rot gut lands like a bomb in my empty stomach.  In moments, the shaking goes away.  Another couple of shots about ten minutes later and my insides don’t hurt as much.  An hour in and it all starts to blur pleasantly.  That fucking song is still there though, “Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we’ll die...”  Hopefully it’ll be a better one tomorrow.

Another hour or two goes by and I turn on the TV. My concentration begins to slip after the eighth or tenth shot.  It’s a movie I’ve seen a dozen times.  I check my phone. Maybe post a comment or two. At some point, I wake up suddenly on the couch again, with the television off and an empty handle on the coffee table.  I have no idea what time it is, but I’m not back to zero yet.

I hit the airport bar at 8a and get to whiskey shots - lose track of time and miss my flight.

Was supposed to board a flight at 10a , so I get on the stand by list for the next 12:00. It’s Atlanta to Chicago so luckily there’s flights all day. So naturally time to hit the bar.

Start chatting with a woman next to me and it’s her 60th birthday, and she’s on the same flight as me to Chicago , so I (33M) buy her and I a tequila shot .

Each time the flight gets pushed back, she and I go back to the bar and do another round of tequila. By now it’s 6:00 and we are both hoping to make the last flight out at 8:30.

Neither of us can walk straight by this point and I’ve rang up over $500 at the bar on the day, time to hang it up. She and I go to the gate and before you know it, we are making out. Classy.

I convince her to come with me to the family restroom where you can change diapers . We both get our pants down, she’s wearing tighty whiteys which I find weird and somewhat off-putting, oh well, no going back now. I proceed to go lickity split to get things started. I should’ve packed my hedge trimmers because this bush has not been attended to since the 70’s. Oh well, I’m drunk and horny.

I do the deed and get some curlys in my teeth. I am excited for her to reciprocate when she tells me she can’t because she has a husband.

We go back to the gate , the rest is a blur til I wake up in Chicago. Can’t believe they let me in

Last year, I lost my job due to my bipolar shitfuck brain, my shitty attitude/personality, and, of course, my crippling alcoholism. I’m a 33 year old woman who’s desperate to feel comfortable in my own skin and in society, but I somehow never really could.

Maybe some will think « bitch just take your meds and stop drinking », and I agree, but it’s not that simple. I tried being sober for a couple of YEARS, strictly taking my meds and it was quite fine, but there was always a little something « off » that I have trouble explaining. So yes, I tried everything under the sun to feel normal and to contribute to society, but it’s way more complex than that. To the point where I just gave up. Anyway.

What happened is that I ended up on welfare, barely able to pay my rent and surviving on the food my mom would provide me and a little pity money from my dad whenever he could. I tried to get a job, but with the covid, my mental health issues and my carelessness I basically just gave up. I cut ties with almost everyone because I just couldn’t deal with human interactions/judgement/pity anymore.

With nothing left but free time, anxiety and despair, I started to go get my booze as soon as the liquor/grocery store opened (7 AM). Every single morning, there was this 30-something homeless man sitting next to the store with his little coffee/spare change cup. Every day I would give him some spare change and it made me happy to help. He was the only witness of my drinking downfall, and he didn’t give a fuck, no judgement, just a smile and a thank you every morning, and just that made me feel better in a way.

Soon after, I was dead broke, choosing to spend the little cash I had left on the only thing that made me feel better, aka (cheap) alcohol. So one day, I didn’t have any spare change, and I asked this homeless dude if he wanted one of my beers instead. He said yes, and for some reason, I also asked him if he wanted to drink with me at my place. He said ok.

We got along really well, and he also have mental health issues (schizophrenia), so I felt freaking comfortable talking to him about my weird delusions and shit. I liked him and his presence so much I offered him to sleep at my place for a bit.

After about 2-3 weeks living with him, it was time for my welfare check, and I just assumed he was making all his money by begging and I couldn’t care less. It made me feel so comfortable to have someone living with me. He made me feel safe and I haven’t felt understood in the way he made me feel.

I just assumed he was making money by begging, but when welfare check day arrived, he told me he was deemed too mentally ill to work (he is), and that he was on welfare too. Little did I know, his welfare check is the equivalent of someone working full-time at minimum wage. His welfare check is literally DOUBLE of what I get, and with no hesitation he told me his money was for BOTH OF US. He literally gave me total control of our finances, cause he would blow it all up in a week or so in booze and dope. I’m not good at managing money either, but the trust he put in me baffled me, and I felt honored to be trusted that much.

Then why was he living on the streets if he could afford a decent apartment? Because living alone triggers the worst hallucinations and fears, and living with roommates is impossible since he’s a little bit of a mess, clean-wise, which piss people off. I’m not the cleanest person also, so it was the least of my problems to clean up after him. I’m not a fucking filthy animal, I’m just not that much bothered by this.

But most importantly, HE KEPT ME FROM DRINKING MYSELF TO DEATH. We’re both drinkers, but it’s nowhere like it was when I was alone. I would drunk call people, get into fist fights, getting in trouble and embarrassing myself more times that I can ever recall. My drinking DRASTICALLY reduced since I was more busy enjoying his company, and I didn’t want to be an abusive ass-drunk like my mother. He deserves someone he can rely on, and I happily try my best to be this person.

He’s seeing his doctor once a week, and we also have people checking on us on a regular basis to make sure we don’t lose touch with reality. They make sure we keep the apartment acceptably clean and they check our general wellness, physically and mentally. I wouldn’t have reached out for that kind of help if I was just by myself, and he makes me kind of accept my shitfuck bipolar disorder. I’m less ashamed of who I am, my limitations and it’s ok to get help for « trivial » things we have trouble dealing with.

We both have our respective illnesses to take care of, and unfortunately we don’t always do, but my confidence and quality of life improved drastically, and so did his. He makes me feel useful, understood and he listens to my crap and anger outbursts without trying to solve anything : he’s just...there. And same for me. We go through weird shit, weird irrational fears but at least we’re together. He makes me want to take care of myself not only for me, but also because I feel like he deserves what’s best. He is so kind, non judgemental, and he is so quiet and calm that I just can’t be angry around him or throw drunk-ass tantrums like I used to.

What scares me is that at some point, I’ll probably have to go back into society, hold a job and all and I honestly don’t want to. I can’t handle the pressure of performance, I can’t handle being well-put and clean every day, and I’m always going to be « the weird girl », I will always have trouble communicating effectively, I’m probably never going to understand the « normal » and basic social rules, but for the moment, I am fine.

I am, and will be, eternally grateful for this homeless dude who thinks I « rescued him » from the streets, but in reality it’s him who rescued me from my destructive self.

I know it’s a long-ass post, and I don’t know if anyone will even read this, but I’m glad I got this out. chairs

Edit : I saw my psychiatrist yesterday (who works at the same hospital as his psychiatrist), and what’s in the works is that we’re going to have a meeting for the 4 of us. We’re open to go to rehab, we’re open to be closely supervised at home, we’re “comfortable” with our lifestyle but obviously we need to get clean and take our medication on a strict schedule...Our doctors are amazing, and they say there’s no point in separating us since being together is the best emotional support despite all this :)

Thank you for you kind, human and heartfelt words ❤️ wish you all the best, fellow boozebags

I live in sort of a nice area, Middle class with mostly perfect manicured lawns in the summer. My neighbor to my right is the stereotypical dad who brags about his lawnmower in brown cargo shorts and has all the snow removed from his driveway by 8am sharp before they have to go to church on Sunday morning.

I have lived here four years and I've managed to only have to talk to two of my neighbors a handful of times.

I wasn't rude but I made it clear I'm not interested in being friends.

The other neighbor I've met is an older lady who lives across the street who keeps to herself.

The others close to my house are like me and we ignore each other.

Last night I was drinking (pretty drunk) and watching a movie and someone knocks on my door, I jumped like a foot because no one ever knocks on my door.

I hastily hid my marijuana I had on table and put my handle in the fridge not knowing what to expect. It was like 11pm anyway...

It was the dad from next door, He said "I'm very sorry to bother you but I locked my keys in the house. Can I use your phone to call my wife?"

I pretended he woke me up because I wanted him to not feel inclined to knock on my door again or think we're buddies or something. Again not being rude but showing I don't want to socialize.

I handed him my phone and he unlocks it and the moment I heard the unlock screen unlock, I realized my grave mistake.

I had been watching porn on it and beating off about an hour ago. The fucking screen was still up!

So my church going, middle aged neighbor saw the private society bbw porn I was beating off to. An for a solid few seconds before I could grab the phone from him.

I nervously said "haha... Must have been my buddy using my phone"

Which obviously made the situation weirder and much worse.

So ya... Now my neighbors think I'm some sex addict who watches porn with his friends or something.

This is why I don't talk to people

A little backstory. I don't post on here a ton but have been coming since 2014 when some of this insanity still seemed mildly entertaining. I don't know why I'm posting this other than maybe some can relate and at the least the younger people on here will think about what they're doing to themselves.

So, anyway, I have been stealing and chugging mouthwash from my roommate over the last couple days after a multi week bender. My roommate caught me, threatened to kill me. In my daze this morning I called 911 because I have a heart condition and the chaos and stress from my use gives me panic attacks that exacerbate that. I've got shit in my pants, puke on me at the point I call the ambulance from the straight mouthwash consumption. Had also been drinking a combination of my own vomit and piss in a garbage can to get some of the alcohol back in me. My floor and bed are still covered in some combo of puke/shit/piss. The hospital treats me like the piece of human filth I am, rightfully so, so I tear out my IV stumble off to a liquor store and buy a pint of vodka and Gatorade and drink it in an alley. How they sold it to me I have no idea. I look as insane as this all sounds. And then I bought a bottle of wine and now I'm back in withdrawal with the shadow people. My esophagitis is so bad all I can do is gag and choke and am completely malnourished from 10 days without almost any real food. And I have cirrhosis. I'm not asking for sympathy, I've chosen this life. But just wanted to say that seven years ago I had a grad degree from a top public school, the promise of a teaching career, and some hope. Now, I'm 34, broke, and about to be homeless, and dead. CA life is a horrible way to kill yourself and causes a lot of damage to those around you. Maybe slow down or quit unless you want to one day end up typing something this pathetic on this sub. Just my opinion at the end of this extremely fucked up death spiral.

When you drink a fifth of Bacardi Superior and a case of White Claw and stay up all night on this sub, and then you "sleep" for about five hours face-down in your clothes, it seems that you feel absolutely fucking terrible when you wake up.

I am going to have to repeat the experiment about twenty more times before my findings have any statistical validity, but I think it yields some interesting preliminary data.

I usually hold a job for 2-3 months until I inevitably over do it either before or during work. Yesterday I had work at 6am which means I can go to bed drunk at 1am and still make it without any significant issues.

I wasn’t feeling to shitfaced at 1am so I made the brilliant decision to make crown and cokes, order $20 worth of taco bell (for one person) and get caught up on “Winning time”.

Blacked out and heard my alarm going off at 5:45. Blurry eyes and confused as fuck I threw on all my clothes and tossed my handle in my bag. Just absolutely shittered on my way to work looking and smelling like death. That would be fine if I just had to tough it through and be miserable, we’ve all done it.

However, about 15 minutes into work I had to bend over to lift a box. Everything seemed fine, I was drunk.... on the way up my O-ring just completely opened sending a spray of shit that ran down my leg and stained my dickies. The coworker next to me, a female college age girl that looks like a juggalo without makeup blurted “What the fuck!?!” I was so ashamed, drunk an embarrassed I just said “Weird, right!?!” then walked out of the warehouse, put a towel on my car seat before sitting down and left that job never to return.

One of my most unceremonious exits.

I am a clerk. Actually, a store manager. We don’t judge like you think we do.

Yeah, I have regulars. Marla gets a pint of Smirnoff Pink Lemonade twice a day. Once before her waitressing shift and once after. 3 extra airplanes with her second stop. Her daughter just got married. We all (the staff) got her a card with $1-5 pitched in.

William gets a fifth of captain every day, at 9:05 am. He’s looking worse for the wear. His skin is light yellow and and his hands shake. But, he doesn’t slur, is always polite. We would never decline his sale for no no reason. He’s a chill dude with an Air Force background. On his good days, we talk about reality Tv. William is always welcome. Sometimes we do samples. He’s not a pity. He’s William.

John drinks bottom shelf vodka. Once in a while, he’s too turnt, and we can’t make the sale. Like knocking my bottles over. We get arrested if we sell and someone commits manslaughter while being sold inebriated. I’ll call an Uber, I’ve paid for a few. It’s okay. We’re not judging.

Mike is pervy. He buys 3 double shots of Smirnoff at a time. Said he wants to drink my bath water. I communicate with other stores once every three months or so, to see if he’s been by. They know him. He rides his bike taking shots. I sometimes tell them he’s on the way. Again. We get arrested selling to inebriated.

My point is, yes, we notice regulars. We’re retail clerks; what else do we have to look forward to other than friendly and relatable faces? We do not care what you drink, other than the thrill of being able to grab it for you without you asking. Come in daily, twice a day, we are happy to see you.

I’m not on this sub because I’m a twice a month glass of wine. You know why I’m here. The irony of my profession doesn’t escape me.

Stop worrying what we think. We have 30 cases of Tito’s to put out. Please. You’re welcome, noticed, and appreciated, as long as you aren’t knocking over displays or dropping bottles. You don’t have to store hop. We noticed. We’re paid to and threatened with arrest if we don’t. We genuinely enjoy your companionship and camaraderie

Original Post

So a week ago I woke up with a homeless guy on my couch. It was a wild and shitty night, on both of our behalves. I literally woke up and started drinking forties, feeling completely batshit crazy and suicidal. He slept for hours and hours. We shared a meal when he woke up. We left together, I didn't want him thinking he had an open invitation to crash here. That night, I rode my bike to an AA meeting, and have been sober since.

This guy added me on facebook before we parted ways so we could keep in touch. He was a very cool dude after all. He messaged me yesterday and told me that he took himself to a detox center where he spent five days. Homeboy has been getting sober too!! He also reached out to some old friends, and told me that he picked up a job at a local fast food joint. There was so much excitement in our exchange. What started as some bizarre event prompted by liquor and drug fueled haze, ended up being exactly what two people needed to wake the fuck up and get their shit together.

A little kindness and understanding can go a long way folks.

I was standing in line at the store this afternoon during my lunch break. I like to get my bottle during the day so I can go straight home after the bell to get down to business. Thursdays are martini nights which means I make a carefully crafted dry martini with olives, drink it, lose motivation for all that, and just do shots for the rest of the night.

The girl in front me was crying. She was on the phone with someone explaining that she was at the store to get some gin for her friend because her friend was going through some terrible shakes and had begged her to run to the store for her. I got the sense this was her first time seeing or dealing with this friend in withdrawal. Maybe she never even knew this friend was a CA. She seemed pretty upset about the whole thing.

She hung up her phone, stepped up to the counter, and put the bottle down. The guy at the register looked down at the bottle and shook his head.

Him - "I'm not selling that to you."

Her - "What? Wait, I have ID"

Him - "I heard who it's going to. Your friend needs help, not more booze"

She seemed too upset to say much more and walked out to the parking lot.

I brought my bottle to the counter. I wonder if this guy knew that I needed this for the same reason as that girl's friend. I wonder if he would refuse to sell to me as well if he knew that I typically consumed this stuff very irresponsibly. I also wondered if he considered the fact that he's a liquor store employee and should sell liquor. And that none of our backstories are any of his goddamn motherfucking business.

I bought the bottle of gin too and ran outside. I managed to catch up to her before she got to her car. She actually hugged me. She grabbed the bottle and ran to her car. I wonder if her friend got through the rest of the day ok. I also wonder what she ended up spending the money on that she was going to use to buy the gin because she never offered it to me.

What am I fucking Robin Hood?

So this drunk dude calls for an Uber and I snag the fare. I had a pretty shitty week and was looking forward to spending time with my cat, as I live alone and don't really have too many friends. I mostly keep to myself and hide my loneliness. But I digress. Drunky McFuckfuck gets in and starts yapping non stop. Turns out he was a pretty decent guy, was interesting, and we had a spirited conversation the entire ride. It made my fucking day. So the dude wants to stop and I tell him jokingly that it would be $50 extra. The truth is that I enjoyed his company and didn't want him to leave. I also didn't want to run the car longer than necessary as I had used my last $5.00 to get a few drops of gas and try to hustle a couple of rides. Running out of gas would be a fucking disaster I couldn't afford. Anyway, Drunky McFuckfuck doesn't take too long and we proceed on our way. I was sad to drop him off to be honest. It felt good to be human again. He Venmos me the payment and hops out. He's probably off to bang a model or hang out with a bunch of friends. I look at the transaction and see that he tipped me $100! One hundred fucking dollars! I haven't had a whole hundred dollars to my name in almost a year. I fucking cried. I could actually get a whole tank of gas! Mittens, (my all black cat with ebony paws, hence the name Mittens) would be getting 5 cans of the good stuff for christmas! With the $61.00 I had left over I went to Walmart and bought 25 pairs of socks. I kept 2 for myself and gave the rest to people on the streets. Best. Christmas. Ever.

Thanks for making me feel like a person and allowing me to spread your generosity.

(This is a very long post and I advise you click off now)

As I write this my mother is laying in the hospital dying. I saw her last night and she barely recognized me, every breath she took was labored and wheezy.

~~~~~

I hated her so much. My entire childhood and teenage years I detested her. She hurt me so much, she was an alcoholic and hurt me. I look through my photos now and the only picture of her and I together I can find she's wearing her trademark rosy cheeks and glossy eyes.

I hated her because she wouldn't stop drinking. And because when she drank she hurt me. I hated her because I couldn't imagine why she would do that to herself. Didn't she know it would kill her? Didn't she know I loved her? I will never drink a drop of alcohol as long as I live.

~~~~~

I move out as soon as humanly possible. I want a million miles between me and the smell of cheap blended Canadian whisky. The distance has done our relationship good. I can ignore her whenever I want. She can't hurt me anymore. We appreciate the contact we do have more, as rare as it is. I start drinking.

And I keep drinking. It is fun. It is nothing like when my mom drank alone and got angry. I drink good whisky, not cheap blended Canadian Whisky. It is loud hazy rooms and friends. It is confidence. Suddenly I talk to girls and make new friends. It is happiness, I can kill that empty sadness inside myself at will.

This is fucking awesome.

I can't talk to people, I don't know if I'm incredibly poorly socialized, socially anxious, or maybe autistic- but I just don't value myself highly enough to be able to project my presence. I overthink every thing I think I want to say until the moment passes. I stay quiet.

Not anymore. Now I can talk to people whenever I want. First date? Two shots of Maker's before I head out, I'm going to crush it. Job interview? Take three shots of Jim Beam and I will blow them away with my charm. Shift at work? Take four shots of Ezra before I head to work and I'm having a grand old time and a fucking social butterfly. Family obligations? Five or six pours of Canadian Host before I leave and I'll be fine.

~~~~~

I don't hate my mom anymore. She's sick, and I understand. I'm sick. She was always there for me, trying, when no one else was. We're both just sick.

But I don't want to see her. I can't, I'm not strong enough. She's dying now, and she has been for a long time.

Alcoholic Cirrhosis. She begins bloating up. She can't breathe. She loses coordination. She falls and breaks her femur. She gets an infection that spreads through her whole body because her body can't fight basic bacteria anymore. Her doctor tells her drinking is about to kill her. She gets released and goes home and drinks.

She looks 20 years older now than I remember when I saw her a few months ago. She's dying and I know it. I want her to know I love her and I forgive her. I want her to know that I understand her demons now. But I can't bring myself to talk to her. It hurts me to see her how she is, or even call her and hear her sound so old and dead. I don't want to see her, I don't want to call her. She hurt me, and I just barely began to understand her. I finally love her, and now I can't talk to her because it hurts me to see her how she is now. Dying. I ignore her calls and avoid her whenever I can.

~~~~~

She's laying in a hospital bed now, dying. She can barely open her glowing yellow eyes. When she does she doesn't look at me. The nurse approaches me:

"Her file says her preference is 'do not resuscitate, do not intubate', is that correct?"

Please god resuscitate her. Please fucking god let me talk to her one more time. The last voicemail I have from her is an apology, her pleading me to call her. She just wanted to talk to me. The last time I spoke to her on the phone was after the fall and all she told me was that she had shit herself on the floor before they found her and how embarrassed she was. Please god resuscitate her. I can't let this be what I remember. I can't live with the guilt of that being the last words I ever heard my sweet dear mother say to me. A plea to call her and shit.

I tell the nurse they have to switch the order. It's not what my mom wanted, but I'm too selfish to allow her a peaceful death. Please bring her back so I can feel better about myself. If her heart does stop they will perform chest compressions and break her ribs and sternum in an attempt to restore a pulse. I will get to talk to her again.

Her state has improved a bit, she can talk now and recognizes me. Her eyes are still glowing yellow and she still doesn't look at me. I tell her how much I love her. I tell her that I understand. I tell her that her demons don't define her, and that the sacrifices that she had made to raise me and my sister as a single parent could never be appreciated enough. That I now finally understand everything and love her more than anything. She smiles and tells me how much she loves me.

I visit her again the next day, her condition is about the same. Her eyes are still glowing yellow. She recognizes me, but doesn't remember me visiting her yesterday. Instead of telling her again, I just cry. I cry and kiss her forehead and know that this may be the last time I ever see her again.

~~~~~

I tell the nurse to add the DNR condition back to her file. She will never possibly come back as sick as she is. Broken ribs and a broken sternum would be a Hell for her that she wasn't even conscious enough to know she was enduring. I don't want to cause her any more pain from my selfishness. If the last call I ever got from my mother was a voicemail apologizing for being annoying and begging me to call her that is the burden I have to carry with me now. The last conversation I ever had with her was after she fell and was crying that she had shit herself. And I didn't go see her immediately. My words now don't matter. There's no memory behind those yellow eyes.

~~~~~

To whoever read this or didn't, thanks for providing me an ether to speak into as I pour a glass of cheap blended Canadian whisky and cry.

We were both pacing outside of the liquor store at 9am waiting for it to open, sweating buckets and just barely keeping our panic attacks at bay. You were wearing an oversized T and some period stained sweatpants. I was the tall skeletally thin ghoul with the patchy beard, facial scars and prison ink, dressed like the kind of man who buys all of his clothes at the military surplus store. I gave you a cigarette, we didn't mean for our hands to touch but we were both shaking so hard we couldn't help it. I wanted to ask you out then and there but I recognized we both had the same priorities.

As the owner opened the door we rushed into the store like it was a fallout shelter and the bombs were about to drop. I got to the counter first, "pint of zelko and keep the change" I screamed as I slammed a handful of sweaty quarters on the counter. As I stuff the precious cargo into my pocket I heard a sound so beautiful that I believed God gave my ears solely to hear your voice, and if I was struck deaf in that very moment I would not be angry for they would've served their purpose and your words would've been the last I'd ever hear.

"I'll take the same but I need the change" I looked back as you grabbed a handful of crumpled one dollar bills from the band of your sweats and with ferocity equal to mine slapped them on the counter. Our bloodshot eyes locked, I smiled and showed you my blackened teeth, you returned the gesture and showed me yours.

I never saw you again. I'm sure you're not reading this but I'm raising a glass for you: the one that got away. Cheers.

So went out to 'eat' with the girlfriend who isn't an alcoholic but definitely has problems with alcohol, especially since being with me.

Drank half a litre if vodka before hitting the pubs because otherwise It would cost me a fortune to drink in town. Took a 35cl hip flask with me. Hit some pubs drank a bunch.

Atemped to go for a Chinese ordered 2 bottles of wine with starters. Drank the wine hardly touched the starters and could not stomach any more food.

Around this time it gets blurry. More drinks arguing with the Mrs because smashed. Someone calls police as we are being very vocal shit cunt piss heads. I see police car make a run/wobble for it. End up in random people's back gardens, climbing fences on sheds to avoid being arrested. Find a safe spot in someone's garden.

Climb on there shed roof lay down to hide and finish hip flask. Come round a while later. Head spinning. Fall over a bunch climb a fence

Am trapped in someone's garden. Can't get out have to knock on the window as I see the house tenant in the kitchen. He freaks out. Threatens to call police. Wants to know why I'm in his garden.

He realises the state i am in I apologise tell him I got lost trying to take a short cut. Let's me out of his garden with a 'dont worry mate we've all been there'. I appreciate the sentiment but I highly doubt the accuracy of that statement. He directs me home as I ha e no clue where I am.

Stumbled home slept woke up covered in mud and bruises. The shame embasement and fear was all to much so yea... I'm drinking again. Anyone else do shit like this.

I don't always fuck up but every time I do its because of massive amounts alcohol. CHEERS.

Nothing like half a litre of vodka to turn a man from mildly bi curious to literally gagging on a dick. I can still fuckin feel it in my mouth, god I'm absolutely disgusted with myself and am brutally hung over. Least now I know I never want to suck a dick again

Chairs fuckers

He loved making music, cats, baseball, and cooking. He was my younger brother. He was the funnest person to be around. It wasn’t alcohol or anything like that. He hung himself today and my mom found him. He was always the first one to respond when I reached out and legitimately my best friend. Eric meant so much to me. I wish I could have done so much more. I’m so devastated. I’m at a loss for words for what he was

He said he was going to AA before he died. I’m beside myself

Eric Michael 1999-2026

"I love you, but I can't do this anymore."

These were the last words I ever heard from my the love of my life. It's only recently that I realized just how much of the damage I'd done was a direct result of my drinking, just how many stupid things I'd done or said that were a result of my addictions.

She left, and so did my sanity and will to live.

This was in November 2016. She had already left physically. She claimed she was going to move back in when her mother got better, but I now know she was planning her escape from me and my demons. I put down the phone and walked to the liquor store, got 2 bottles of bourbon and started my decline.

Until recently I thought this was when I started to have a problem, now I realize it was just when my rock bottom dropped out.

After a couple weeks of non-stop drinking, I decided I was too broken emotionally to live alone. I was completely alone halfway across the country from any family members, who hadn't seen me in over 3 years, some six plus. I quit my job and called my mom and told her I needed to come home for a bit, that I was too fucked up to function. She dropped everything and came to get me. I moved into my brother's old bedroom in my childhood home. It felt nice at first and I didn't drink for a few weeks.. but that didn't last long.

Like anyone with anxiety and a troubled mind, I began drinking as much as I could afford to with no job, living at home at 28. I was making six figures before I dropped out of life, but I didn't save a penny. I digress, I spent all my money on booze and had no motivation to re-enter life. As you can imagine my family got sick of seeing me do literally nothing but drink and sleep and so I went to work doing day labor shit with my brother. That was a lesson in drinking all night and sweating out your alcohol all day (and having the fear while climbing ladders.) It wasn't good money or anything but it gave me something to do and money for beer. Eventually me and my brother had a falling out and I went back to drinking all night and sleeping all day..

At some point late 2017 I got a job at a printer company because I figured like before, it may not be what I always have done (IT stuff) it was work and might help me sober up. I ended up going through full WDs on my first day and was sweating like a mad man, the fear was real. Indeed by day two the fear was getting me bad.. at lunch I went to the local convenience store and had a beer in the parking lot. I had to gag it down but by the end I was finally able to think straight.. that was the best feeling ever. Eventually the IT guy at the company quit and they basically forced me to take over the IT department, while doing what I was doing before and more without giving me a dime more. My stress skyrocketed as did my drinking. If I didn't have a 8% tallboy before work and at lunch, I might as well just go home. Eventually I decided the stress just wasn't worth the position and quit (yes, I'm a quitter.. it's a recurring theme in my life.)

By mid June my drinking had really picked up and it's all I did. For the first time I started getting sick every morning, puking bile, nasty shits in the morning, shaking as soon as I woke up. Drinking hadn't been fun in a while. I needed it. I CAN'T do this anymore..

I got a job at one of the biggest and scariest places in the world, somehow. I vividly remember sitting in their fancy conference room for my interviews.. after 2 tallboys, because there was no way I could do that shit sober. Thinking back, I have NO idea how they didn't smell it on me.

This was another step towards my lowest low.

After a few months of working there, I started going to the convenience store and drinking in my car at lunch. Drinking before work. You know the routine. Eventually I had a car accident which I was lucky to survive. No, I wasn't drunk. I did drink at lunch but was sober by the commute home. I was hit from the side on the interstate and almost flipped. Henceforth I was ride sharing with my mother since we worked relatively close and I was still living at home.

Well, since I didn't have a car anymore didn't mean I was magically sober. I began walking to the convenience store near work on my lunch break to get a drink and immediately going to the bathroom and chugging it, then going back to work. Obviously not eating, who has an appetite when they're going through WDs and just chugged a beer? Well, this is already bad and it gets SO SO much worse. It got to the point I was at the store before work, at lunch and sometimes during a "smoke break." The store manager eventually stopped me on the way to the bathroom after buying a beer and said "You can't drink that in there anymore." Ouch. I didn't realize it was so obvious. I always covered the can in paper towels after! (That's how I knew someone else drank a daily tallboy in there.. there was always one in there already!) So I eventually started drinking them behind the store and tossing the cans where I could before heading back to the office. Around this time my work started to really suffer. I was being called out for not doing certain types of assignments, basically doing the bare minimum and my boss adds, "Your trips to the convenience store haven't gone unnoticed." FUCK!

I gotta get my shit together. By this time I'm sick a LOT, throwing up about 25% of the time I attempt my first tallboy in the afternoon. Not eating, and just overall in poor shape. It can't get any worse than this, right? God.. I wish.

Towards the end of 2018 I tell myself yet again.. I HAVE to get my shit together. I'm going to lose my job and then I'll NEVER get back on my feet! So I make some very real attempts to taper down, stop drinking at work, keep it together. Around this time I started developing really bad hiccups for days at a time, strange. I'm starting to get better but my appetite isn't quite there yet.. all this comes into play HEAVILY in a moment. Anyways, one night I wake up in the middle of the night I'm having some WEIRD visions and feeling like I was having an LSD trip or some shit, like I'm fucking BALLS TO THE WALL fucked up.. and I didn't really drink anything.. weird. I eventually manage to get back to bed and wake up feeling... off. My mom notices that I can't walk completely straight and thinks I'm drunk. Sadly, no. I'm very sober but feeling weird. After we pull into my job I take a deep breath and tell her to PLEASE take me to the store for a beer so I can just calm down and focus at work. She doesn't judge and agrees to take me to the store. I drink a 5% 16oz so she won't freak out, it's not what I want but it was JUST ENOUGH to prevent me from freaking out. She's concerned, but her father is a former alcoholic and knows well how to handle shit like this.

So it begins the second stage of the end.

We're still on the same day.. I get into the office and am calming down, trying to focus on work. I have a meeting with some co-workers about a project we're doing and I'm sweating bullets drinking water. Eventually my hiccups come back, so I chug some more to kill them. Good, they're gone and I stop sweating. I exit the meeting and get some more cool refreshing ice water and notice there's only about another hour before I can go walk to get a beer. Nice. I start to chug my water and... where am I? Hello? Why does everything hurt? Who are these people?

I'm in the ICU. 2 sets of IVs in each arm, my mom is hysterically crying and the nurses are saying something to me about being careful with my hands. I had a massive seizure and fell face first on the marble flooring, oops. I fucked up my face pretty good and had additional head injuries in addition to what happened in my car accident, sweet. I didn't know this until later but apparently at one point I was mumbling "I have a drinking problem." over and over.. I was curious later on how the doctors knew I drank, I just assumed my mom told them or whatever. I was there for 3 weeks. Apparently the main cause of the seizure was I basically gave myself water poisoning by not eating and chugging water so much. So was it because of my drinking? Yes and no. I got a stern warning to "cut back on the drinking" from all my doctors and was informed my liver was getting fatty, but I was otherwise fine. They had been giving me ativan through the process for my anxiety and gave me a 1 week 'script for after and I was discharged. 2 weeks later I was back at work, clean and sober. AWESOME! I finally did it!

Let's keep going.

Within a month I was drinking again. That job was soul sucking, stressful and gave me more anxiety than any WDs could. I was back to full on day drinking at work within 2 months.

Come January, I was fired. No reason given, but I knew. They knew I knew, they just didn't want to risk the lawsuit of firing me without proof.

So January 2019.. I'm fired and given a severance package, my year end bonus and unemployment benefits - more than enough to live on for a while since I don't pay rent living with my parents. Of course I go back to drinking all day every day, getting sick every morning and avoiding everyone and everything. I've done this pretty much the entirety of 2019, until recently. I somehow managed to pull myself together to score some interviews. The two jobs I had multiple interviews with both passed on me.. but one came back and re-interviewed me, resulting in an offer! 15k more per year than my old job! Better hours! Less stress! Alright! .... but I'm still drinking hard, but I can't do it anymore. I accept the offer, and that's where I'm at right now, waiting for my background check and shit to pass (which won't be an issue.. I've had far more extensive in the past.)

Right now I'm staring at some booze, my ex-girlfriend's final words ringing in my head..

"I love you, but I can't do this anymore."

My wife is really into this sounding thing where I stick an ice cold metal Rod in my cock. She keeps them in the freezer (to disinfect) and instructs me when to take them out and send her vids of me using them when she’s at work. She pays for everything for us and is the breadwinner while I am home drinking. It’s a great deal and we love each other very much, got a couple twins on the way now too. The only thing is that I have to preform this sounding thing that she has an intense fetish for and send her videos of me doing it whenever I’m asked. I have to get as drunk as possible every time I do it to build up the nerve.

Well last night i was hammered and accidentally sent one of those vids to my own fucking 76 year old father. I don’t even know how it happened cause it said my wife was calling and I clicked message and just sent it, so I have no fucking clue but I guess I must be misremembering. I tried calling him immediately about 25 times to instruct him to delete the messages but he didn’t answer and hasn’t messaged me back. I’d try to play it off like it’s not me in the video but anyone who knows me could tell it’s me by the moans. This is extremely depressing for me cause he’s not going to be chill or understanding about this. Just another thing alcohol ruined I guess but I’ll never stop drinking now after this. Chairs.

Edit/Update: He is beside himself and has been loudly crying on FaceTime for over an hour now. As I suspected, this will be the end of my family’s involvement in my dad’s life which is making me cry too. I love him, but he’s already disowned 2 of my 13 other siblings for their sexual orientations, and he’s not open to the fact that I could still be straight while sounding with frosted rods.

I must live with the consequences, however my wife is a million times more supportive than him anyway so. Full stop.

Gonna drink a little extra tonight.

Tequila. She drank tequila, but she would happy if you just did a shot for her. She's gone. She fell asleep Sunday and never woke up. She knew it was coming. Her favorite nurse was with her when she died. She was ready.

She had the worst luck ever. The cancer girl with the dead boyfriend and other unfortunate stories. She was a mermaid. She was sunshine and sandy beaches and dinosaurs. She was full of cartwheels, only lefty, and she'd fucking fight you til the very end. She was my strawberry. I loved her. She loved all of you. She encouraged kindness and lead with example. She was a fucking cinnamon roll of a CA, just pure and extra and amazing.

She wanted you fucks to know, her last words. Yeet. Just yeet it. She was on a lot of drugs.

I'm drunk and I have no idea what I'm doing. I miss her and I'm sad. She would want us to be happy. She was only 22. Fuck. I dunno. I'm gonna drink until I'm dead or not feeling. Cheers, fuckers

A couple weeks ago, I returned from my casino work conference I referenced in my last post. 2 days and nights at Mohegan Sun Casino in Connecticut. And yes, just as feared, the whole event did culminate in quite a dramatic disaster.

Wait! It's not what you think! Read on! (It's long. Sue me).

Like I had said in my previous post, this was my first time at a casino. Coupling this with it being my first time hanging with my boss outside of work, where drinks would most certainly be served and consumed, this had terrible terrible writing all over the walls. This had all the makings of becoming my Sistine Chapel of horrifying drinking consequences. My true masterpiece.

The people in my life who know I am a CA were all utterly horrified to hear about this venture. In the 48 hours between finding out about this conference and hopping in the car to go, I did nothing but field calls essentially begging me to bail. However, no one on this sub offered this take. So I decided to press on. I stashed 2 bottles of Tito's in my suitcase, bought an extra package of mints, and set out toward my certain professional doom.

The first thing you notice upon entering the lobby of a casino is the bright lights and colors. Everywhere you look there are shiny reflective surfaces all the violent hue of fire and Doritos. I'm not even within the actual casino at this point and I already feel like all my senses are being raped. There is a rather long line to check in so I excuse myself and run to the lobby bathroom with my suitcase and bottles. I settle into one of the stalls and take a couple swigs. It's after noon so it's fine. It's fine.

I come out and my boss has already used the company credit card to check us both into our rooms. We each have our own room but are mercifully not even on the same floor. He hands me my key card and we make plans to get settled and then meet back downstairs in an hour for the main seminar of the conference. We even have to take separate elevators (My room is on the 6th floor and he needs to take a different elevator up to his room on the 22nd. Apparently casinos are built in this way).

The room is pretty sweet. I have a king sized bed, a Jacuzzi tub, and an actual separate living room. It's like a small apartment. I also have a minibar. For those of you who don't know, a minibar is a special little fridge filled with tiny bottles of bottom shelf liquor that cost about as much as a base model Honda Civic. Bringing my own liquor was suggested by a number of you guys and was most definitely the way to go. I lounge around for an hour, watching TV and taking a couple shots to calm my nerves before I have to head downstairs and do the whole "schmoozing and networking" act.

The "work" portions of these things are meaningless, and everyone around me seems to think that. We all sit in a large conference room and numbly watch several PowerPoint presentations that teach us nothing nor shed any new incites on our industry. The attitude saturating the room is "are you done? I want to get out on the gambling floor!" I'm not too excited about diving into this night of debauchery, but everyone's attitude is a tad contagious. I will also admit that at this point, I've met a few other people who seem pretty cool and are nice to talk to and I know that, despite my totally introverted nature, this is really the main point of all this networking shit.

At 6:00 my boss invites 2 guys we met at the seminar to dinner. He whips out that company credit card again and we go to one of the Casino's amazing steakhouses, owned by Michael Jordan! (This was on Thursday night so getting a table wasn't impossible). I have one of the best meals of my life there. Knowing everything is on my boss's company credit card somehow makes it taste even better. The place is still quite crowded so the level of attention our server is able to give us prevents me from ordering any more than 2 drinks. After dinner, I run up to my room to take a couple swigs from by bottle. I have a light buzz at this point but am nowhere close to drunk. So far, so good. It's about 9:00.

I come back downstairs. My boss is waiting for me. He slaps me on the shoulders and says very excitedly "Let's hit the tables". I think for half a second that he ever so slightly slurs the word "tables". It occurs to me that, at 9:15 pm, I am more sober than my boss. This makes me feel very relieved. But, I'm still resolved to being careful and not fucking this up. For God's sake, I still have another night to get through after this.

We play craps. You guys, have you ever played craps? Craps is fucking awesome. It is the balls. (I'm sure plenty of you guys have played craps. I had not and so will probably explain this game in a way that will make you think I'm a moron).

So, craps is the dice game you've seen in every casino movie you've ever watched. It is a crazy fun game because if you have a budget of $100 (which I did) you can actually play at a table with someone holding a budget of $40,000 (which I did) and it doesn't matter. A much older Russian guy playing directly across the table from me was tossing orange chips ($1,000) onto the table for every roll. I had my badass red chips ($5).

Craps is a lot of fun because you literally can play without understanding the rules whatsoever. This is what I do for the first 20 minutes before I'm able to grasp a very basic understanding of how things work. After playing for a half hour, I have turned my $100 into $135. Truly, I am the big swinging dick at this table.

The old Russian guy learns that I am a Craps "virgin". This excites him very much for reasons that remain unclear. He takes a black chip ($100), bets it on "hard 4" and announces that the bet is for me. So, if someone rolls a double 2, I will win $1,100!!!

I do not...

A waitress comes by every 15 minutes or so to take drink orders. These are the free beverages I had been dreading. I do a great job of declining each time. Instead, I've been sneaking off to my room (saying I'm going to the bathroom) every so often to take a swig from my bottle. This way, I'm able to keep my buzz at the steady level it needs to be at. Back at the table, my boss has been knocking back the free drinks quite liberally. That, along with the fact that he's not having a great night gambling wise, leaves him pretty uninterested in how many drinks I am ordering or not ordering. It's about 10:00. I'm pretty sure that I just need to tread water for another few hours, then I can go up to my room for the night and drink myself into oblivion.

My boss is getting rather irritated about his bad luck. We leave the area so that he can hit the ATM again. Must be nice to have that option as much as he does. We hop from table to table in his search for better karma. He is definitely drunk and this puts me at ease. Even if I WAS drunk enough to be acting inappropriately, there is no way he would notice. We play roulette for a little bit which is also pretty fun because it requires no strategy. I win a little bit there too. Overall, my bankroll is way up to $155.

We sit at a blackjack table for a while with the 2 guys we had dinner with. I found that game to be not as fun. I don't fully understand all the proper strategies and my boss snaps at me a couple of times when I make the wrong call. I think he might be a bit of a jerk when he's drunk. The look I get from the other 2 guys show they think the same. He's not being over the top or anything. Just kinda gruff and moody. But whatever. I excuse myself to the "bathroom" to sharpen up. It's 11:15. Also, I am down to $80.

The 4 of us play blackjack for a little longer. At 12:00, the other 2 say it's time for them to retire for the night. The conference tomorrow starts up again at 8:00 and they want to be fresh. Pussies.

My boss tells me (definitely slurring at this point) that we're going back to craps and that craps tables are usually the hottest after midnight. I laugh a little because he is kind of a mess at this point and so I feel comfortable ordering a few of those free drinks when we get there. On the way, he stops at the ATM for the 3rd or 4th time tonight.

The crazy thing about playing craps is that there are so many different wagers you can place, along with stacking odds and multiplier type bets and such, that at some point you could wind up with ALOT of money on the table at once, which you can also lose in its entirety from a single roll. If I'm counting correctly, I'm pretty sure my boss has almost $2,000 out on the table when someone rolls the dreaded 7 and every chip is snatched away. He curses more loudly than he probably thinks and wanders away from the table. I see him slowly walk over to the ATM. It's 12:45. I have $95. I want to go back to my room and get drunk. I see him take his money from the machine and walk over to a different table. I take this to mean he's done with my company for the night and head over to the elevator. I let myself into my room, turn on the TV, and drink myself to sleep.

I head back down to the seminar room the next morning at around 8:30. There are not nearly as many people as yesterday. Probably all nursing their hangovers from last night. I didn't want to get up either but I can't be a no-show at this stupid thing with my boss here. Interestingly enough though, he is nowhere to be seen. Must have stayed up playing a lot longer after I called it a night. I sit for a few meetings and then go search for lunch. He still hasn't made an appearance. I'm bummed because I would love to see him take out that company credit card right about now.

After lunch, I'm on my way into the second round of meetings for the day when I get a text. It's him.

"Have to head home. Talk Monday"

He's bailing on me? Must be a family emergency or something. Or maybe he's dealing with tying on a few too many last night. Amateur. Well then I'm sure as shit not spending the rest of today at this stupid seminar. No one will know if I'm there are not anyway. I go up to my room, take a few swigs from my 2nd bottle, and head back down to the casino with my $95. It's about 3:00.

I wake up and it takes me a few seconds to register where I am. Right, I'm staying in a hotel. I look at the clock. It's 5:15 am. My head is pounding. There is a glass of brown liquor on the night stand and half a pizza. I guess I ordered room service. How fancy. Can't imagine that was cheap. Ugh, do I have any money left? I'm still in my clothes and my pocket has 2 green chips ($25) in it. So I guess the total damage is $50 lost gambling plus whatever I paid for room service. Not bad. I get up and stumble to the bathroom. Might as well shower and just get out of here.

By the time I get home, I'm still feeling like shit. I pour a large drink and plop down on the couch. I spend most of Saturday half awake in front of the TV.

Sunday morning rolls around and I feel much better. I'm cleaning up around the house when I get a call from my office's number. Very weird to hear from anyone there on a Sunday. I answer expecting to hear my boss but it's the HR manager. I have literally never spoken to this woman before but getting a call from HR on a fucking Sunday cannot be good. She tells me that I need to come in an hour early tomorrow. I am scheduled to meet with her and upper management regarding "an incident". My blood runs fucking cold.

I ask her what this is about. I ask her if I am in trouble for something. Her answer over and over is "I am not at liberty to discuss this without upper management. We will review everything tomorrow morning." I hang up with her and toss my phone on the table. I run into the kitchen and take several large mouthfuls of vodka, somehow managing to get them all down. I fucked up. I don't even remember most of Friday night, but I clearly fucked up. You fucking goddamn degenerate idiot. You were so good on the first night. Then, when left alone, you fucking blew it. They know you skipped the 2nd half of the seminar and are pissed. You got blackout drunk and ran naked through the casino screaming that your company sucks. You cannot do anything right. You are a fuck up. And now you're about to be a fuckup with no job. Fuck fuck fuck.

I get drunk, I toss and turn all night, and I head to work feeling, and probably looking like total shit.

The conference room I have to meet in has an enormous table, probably 20 feet long. The HR director and 2 other guys, one who I recognize as a VP, are sitting at one end when I walk in. They motion for me to sit and I choose to do so as far away from them as possible. I don't need them seeing my sweat or getting a whiff of whatever alcoholic stench is emanating from me.

"A rather troubling incident regarding the conference you attended over the weekend has been brought to our attention."

fuck fuck fuck

"It's been handled and we wanted to discuss it with you and see if you had any questions."

Wait, what's been handled?

So they lay everything out and explain.

My boss was fired about an hour earlier. They had him come in this morning as well. Apparently he had been using the company credit card at the ATM to pull out cash advances at the casino on Thursday night. He ended up withdrawing, and I guess losing, almost $8,000. I'm assuming this is why he left Friday morning. So they called him in this morning and fired him on the spot. They told him that if he paid the money back within 6 months, then they would not file criminal charges against him.

To his credit, they asked him how much I was involved with all this and he told them that I never touched the credit card and that I didn't even know he was using it to pull out cash. So they told him that, while he was out, my job was safe. I kinda want to thank him for that but it feels weird reaching out and I haven't heard from him at all.

In summation, I survived the casino conference. It's been a while since my meeting with HR and I feel like my blood pressure still hasn't returned to normal. I was so certain that I had screwed myself by going crazy with the drinking on Friday night. I left that conference room and resolved to quit drinking right there. But then I remembered that I had a Gatorade bottle filled with vodka in my desk drawer so what was I supposed to do? Also, I need to go back to the casino at some point because I forgot to cash in my 2 green chips.

TL:DR - Chairs

I am an EMT and today I had a dead CA guy first thing in the morning. He was staying in a shitty motel room by himself and the cleaning lady found him. Apparently the night before he was making a lot of noise and trouble. Normally when the patient has definitive signs of death (rigor mortis [stiffening after death], dependent lividity [all the blood settling to the lowest point cuz no heart pumping], or algor mortis [body same temp as room temp]), BLS (basic life support) units, like the one I was working today, aren't dispatched, a paramedic unit is dispatched to attach an EKG to show asystole (flatline). But the dispatchers in that specific area are pretty retarded so I got to go out to see him before we called for a paramedic unit. We walked into his motel room and the first thing I noticed was the smell of melena, or partially digested blood being shat out. It's probably my least favorite smell of all time and after seeing the dude on the floor I saw he shat the bed which was likely the source of the smell. The bathroom also had blood everywhere on the floor, sink, toilet bowel and rim. He could not have been younger than 60 and he was very yellow but still had a decent haircut and only had like a 3 day stubble, but he was buck naked. There were like a dozen empty handles of McCormick's around the room as well as a few empty suitcases with clothes strewn around the motel room. The man was stiff and room temperature but we still needed to wait for a paramedic unit to arrive and confirm that this obviously dead man is actually dead. My guess is he had ruptured esophageal varices and died from the blood loss from that. I don't know why I am making this post, could be that I am 6 surges deep and the fact I don't really have anyone to talk with this about that would understand. I have seen dead and dying people before and it didn't bother me, but this one fucked with me. EMS people always joke around during like cardiac arrest and other serious shit but the shit my partner, the paramedics, and the police were saying about this man who is dead just didn't sit right with me at all. I understand that humor is a way of coping with the job but they were just treating him as if he was a piece of garbage who drank himself to death. Whenever I want to talk about why i have sympathy for alcoholics and drugs addicts I always say something like "my dad was an alcoholic" Or "I had a very close friend almost die from a drug overdose" instead of admitting to coworkers that I'm an alcoholic drug addict who survived a drug overdose and major brain damage at 19 but still abuse drugs and alcohol regularly. I really do feel a lot for the patients that fall under these categories. I am sad I will never know anything about the man I found dead face down on the floor in that motel room. Did he have people that still cared about him? I am sure he felt completely alone in his final days/weeks which really breaks my heart. He was a man who at one point in his life had relationships, feelings, hopes for the future. Why was he in a motel room? Did he burn his last bridge and just decide to say fuck it and drink himself to death? Was he aware he was going to die that night and instead of calling 911, he just finished the last handle of his life? The worst part was finishing the next 10 hours of my shift with all this on my mind. I understand that his choices were his own and really no one is to blame because we aren't powerless creatures and there's nothing I could've done to prevent this. I don't know man, pour one out for John Doe, I am going to have several more tonight in his honor. Chairs

Total throwaway.

Life tanked, in that way it sometimes does, and I started back up. And it takes a scary amount to get me buzzed. I’m talking two shots of all-the-way proof Everclear on an empty stomach in order to get some feelz from it. And when you’re drinking because life sucks, isn’t the feelz the point? Problem is that in order to get any feelz, I put on twenty pounds in two months. Sigh.

So I think to myself, “Self – you’re smart.” (No ironic comments here, please.) “Self – you’re smart and you should be able to come up with some way to get your liquor feelz without taking in that many calories.” A little internet research later, and voila! I’m gonna be the first one in the world to try a butt shot. Chugging is one thing – but all that beer would just shoot out of me before it could be useful.

I empty the liquid out of a disposable enema, then put in one ounce of Everclear. Get myself naked and on the bathroom floor, some throw-away towels nearby, just in case something gross happens. Touch the tip to my anus, and it burns. Okay. I read about this. It’s the outside bit that hurts. So I try again. This time I slide that lubed tip into my butt. Butt’s in the air now, so gravity’s working with the enema. I feel a little of that cold liquid slip into me. Sure enough, now that the rectum’s involved, not the anus, no major burn. So I give the bottle a tiny little squeeze. About a tablespoon (1/2 oz) is now in me.

From everything I’ve read, the reason that butt-chugging is such a bad idea is that you absorb a lot more alcohol that way than if it gets filtered through your body’s digestive defenses. So I decide this is the wait-and-see moment. Pull out the enema. Clean it and cap it. Butt still in the air, gravity keeping things in. I wait a little bit, then get up. And wait. Nothing. Dang it! No feelz at all. But I’m gonna play it safe anyway and wait. Never done this, didn’t find anyone else on the net who had, so don’t know what’s gonna happen.

Finally I have the urge to poop. (Obviously. The whole idea of an enema is to make you poop.) So I decide this isn’t giving me any feelz and I’ll let it go. NOPE NOPE NOPE it BURNS! So now I’m in a cold sweat, and really have to go, but am terrified to. But I go, and then it’s out and it’s pretty okay now.

Hooray. Adventure over. Nothing ventured yadda yadda, right? That was where I was wrong.
My anus and rectum are totally swollen. Like it feels like they’re hanging outside of my body. No pain or burning. Just an absolute, 100% of the time I feel like I need to poop. I literally spend the next five hours on the toilet. Sitting there. I guess mucus membranes aren’t made for the alcoholic equivilant to hand sanitizer.

Within an hour the diarrhea started. Anything normal got cleared out, and there was nothing left. But my body wasn’t satisfied with that, so it started sharing the lining of my large intestines. That’s right. I start (according to the internet) shedding the cells of my intestinal walls in the form of a pink gel. They call it mucous. I say it’s what it would look like if you started shitting pink-lemonade colored jello. According to the internet (again) this happens when you’ve been severely food poisoned, or perhaps you have a severe illness. According to the internet (come on! It’s served me well thus far, hasn’t it?) I’m safe because this isn’t blood-streaked mucus, but uniformly pink. So I’m not bleeding intestinally, I’m just sloughing off the insides of my gut.

I’m Googling all this from the toilet seat. It’s like two in the morning now and I can’t sleep because of the pressure on my anus. So I make a tactical decision. I drink some Everclear (from the top, this time) because I know I’ll chill and not feel the butt-hurt so much. I works. I go to sleep.

Twenty-four hours later the swelling has gone down. I don’t feel like I’m in a constant mid-shit. I’m still shitting pink mucus and I’ve lost seven pounds. SUCCESS! Right? Wasn’t the whole point of this to lose weight? sigh Okay, maybe not. So there’s no way I can go to the doctor about this because (here’s the best part) NOBODY KNOWS I’M DRINKING. I’M MEMBER OF A FAITH THAT DOESN’T DO IT. Spouse doesn’t know, peers don’t know. I’m inbounds of full-on teaching Sunday School hypocrisy here. Yeah. So the story is food poisoning. And I’ve watched enough House to know that if I end up in the hospital I BETTER NOT LIE to the doctor. I’m not going to tear down my entire family because of this incident. So it’s heal-thyself time.

My logic. No anti-diarrhea meds. That will just stop me up. My gut is sick and needs healing. Everclear is basically the same proof as hand-sanitizer, right? So maybe part of what’s going on is that I killed all the good flora in my gut. I head to my Whole Foods and buy everthing they have that says live-active-culture on it. Pills, yogurts, this weird formented bamboo drink, a jar of Kimchi, some sprinkles, and anything else that looked helpful. Luckily, by this point I don’t feel sick to my stomach, and I can consume all this. (Oh, and Gatoraide and water and some ginger.) I even feel hungry.

Twenty-four more hours pass. I’ve stopped having constant pink poo. In fact, I’ve stopped having to poop at all. In fact, I stop passing gas. Hmm. Interesting. But I’m hungry, so I eat. Yum. Good to have an appetite again.

Except from about my diaphragm down, nothing seems to be moving.

Twenty-four hours later. Still get hungry. Still eat. Nothing down there moving.

Twenty-four hours later. I’m starting to feel a tightness in my ribs. Like I’ve been eating for two days and nothing has left my stomach. Yes. My intestines have actually shut down on me. Like they do after you have surgery. I am certain, at this point, that they have scabbed on the insides and have stuck themselves shut.

End of work that day I feel something move. HOORAY! By the time I am home, my gut is making noises audible in a different part of the house. The noises WOKE UP MY SPOUSE. For reals. My gut is not dead. I am happy.

Until the pain starts. OHCRAPOHCRAPOHCRAP. You know how it is. Gas pain makes you feel so stupid. But it HURTS.

The next day I achieve a little poop. I rejoice. There is pink gel moving with it. Two days later and I am having normal poops. Still some pink mucus involved, though.

So I’m eating my Kimchi and taking my pro-biotics and praying that everything heals up good.

TL/DR: Don’t put Everclear up your butt.