I wrote this eleven months ago: https://balfourthrb.wordpress.com/2013/05/02/a-thing-i-never-thought-id-write/ about my relationship with alcohol and how much trouble it was getting me into at the time. And here I am, back in a similar spot, forfeiting the fight to sit and drink with the enemy.
The psychiatrist I saw two days ago told me that the drinking directly affects the way that the medication works. They work against each other, so that neither takes full effect. It’s a bit of a Harry Potter/ Voldemort situation- neither can live while the other survives. Of course, if I want to survive, I need the meds to live and the alcohol to be vanquished like the villain of the story. But like so many fantasy villains, alcohol has time and again pushed its own pieces back together from the spaces where I left them, crept back into a body and attached that body to mine.
I feel sick to my stomach at the thought of facing things without alcohol. Genuine nausea rises every time I hear and re-hear other people telling me I need to stop or cut down to a reasonable (unreasonably small!) amount. When I picture my life stretching out drinkless, panic grabs me between the ribs like a fist straight out of an ice-bath. I want to cry.
I know how much better I’ll feel, I know how much better my life might be, I know that without alcohol I would not currently be hobbling around on a broken ankle worried I won’t get my essays done. I know I wouldn’t be spinning out every time I have to speak to someone.
So that’s where I am with drinking.
I’m not writing it a letter to it this time. I’m not leaving this up for discussion.
I need help.
Any suggestions for that, please let me know.