Sick and Tired

Vodka was my new best friend. She was always on my mind. I fantasized about her when we weren’t together. I cherished our intimate embrace. Vodka is cheap. It’s scentless and colorless. It mixes with anything from soda to carbonated water to regular old H2O. I consumed quart after quart. Pint after pint. I devised sneaky methods to smuggle the contraband into our home – down the small of my back between my boxers and jeans, in bottles of seemingly innocent soft drinks and at the bottom of grocery bags beneath the lettuce, Goldfish and bananas.

I was designated the errand runner in our home, so all of the grocery shopping, Target runs and home goods purchasing were my responsibility. I eagerly volunteered for the duty. It meant frequent access to the liquor store and prolonged shopping excursions of drinking in the aisles of Cub Foods and Aldi. I always had plenty of errands to run. I made sure of that. When I didn't have a reason to leave the house, I made one up. Perhaps we needed some weed killer, or a bottle of soda? We really needed a new stapler and three-hole punch, I’d proclaim. I think of anything to get out of the house.

None of this was fun. None of it was social. I no longer savored the taste of alcohol. Lying and coming up with excuses was exhausting. It didn’t make me happy. I didn't make smart choices when planning to drink, drinking or recovering from its toxic impact. Drinking was like brushing my teeth. Simple maintenance hygiene. Thoughts of alcohol were all consuming, every day, all day. It was a weak panacea for my blackened soul.