WORK IN PROGRESS

Where do I start? From which point do I begin?

Let's haiku it, shall we?

start the deadening

let loose of ideals and Hope

sit and sit and drink

Uplifting, huh?! =o)

There comes a time in one's life--and I have not yet reached said point--in which the individual comes to his or her senses. He or she realizes that the trodden path (mashed down by multiple scores of addicts and alkies) is not the path upon which he or she wants to tread. The path is filled with jabberwockies and noodalzins. (And you never want to meet a noodalzin in a dark alley--they have sharp claws and even sharper teeth.)

See, here is the thing: I can look at myself and I can appreciate the strength that I possess. Thick arms, strong shoulders, strong neck, rippled quads. I am proud of my body (though I have lost 15 pounds recently and worry about the Big C--lol). I'm proud of my body, but I'm not proud of my brain. Sure, I am intelligent and creative, but--seriously--who gives a rip? I lack mental strength. I lack that genome that tells an individual that enough is enough. To borrow a phrase from a much-beloved individual: "Enough already." Enough.

There is much psychic pain in addiction. Whole shiploads of it. Self-hatred, shame, physical malaise, self-doubt...I could go on. But I'll stop.

Yesterday, I went golfing for the first time this year. I hadn't swung a club in a year. No driving range; no nothing. I stepped up to the first tee, BAL at about .15, and I stroked the five-wood right down the center of the fairway. No practice swings, no nothing. I just stepped up, gripped it and ripped it. It reminded me of that one time when I went with a friend to a Pistons game and we were allowed to shoot a free throw before the game. I was tanked. Other people stepped to the free throw line and air-balled their shots. I asked the escort if I could shoot from the three-point line. "Sure, go ahead," he said. I dribbled three times and, like a free throw, kept my feet firmly planted on the Palace floor. Swish. Nothing but net.

Nothing but net. I was sloshed, yet I swished the free throw-three.

And, yesterday, with the first drive of the season: nothing but fairway.

And that saddens me. Most people with the BAL of me would have swung and missed at the ball, air-balled the basketball shot. It saddens me because it tells me--firmly--that my tolerance for alcohol is intolerable. I can do a lot of things when I'm fucked up, fucking excluded.

It sucks. It sucks for scores of reasons, but it really sucks that Life takes a backseat to the brew.

I know I need to stop, I know I want to stop, but, at this point, drink by side, stopping is the furthest thing from my Soul. My Soul says "more" and I acquiesce.

And so it goes. Right?

I am not writing this to get advice. I'm not writing this as a call for help. I am simply writing this. To those who read this, you might get a tear in your eye. Or you might not. You may get angry. Fine. Feed on it. You may read this and say, "Shit. Same ole thing." And that is your perogative.

I just had to purge these thoughts and emotions. I had to get them out. I'm tippin' the scale, here. I am reaching a breaking point. But I don't fully give a damn. Alcohol is a snake, for sure.

Alcohol is a snake. For sure.

God helps those who help themselves. I know that and I believe that. Seriously, I am not looking for sympathy. I ain't looking for a hug or a coddle.

It simply boggles my mind how insidious alcoholism can be. It is baffling. It is powerful. It is a pain in the ass. From you, it'll strip every strata of your life. I'm nonplussed. It--the beer, the drink--pulls me strongly.

How many times does one have to go to rehab? Once should be enough, right? The second time I was in there, there was a fellow patient who'd been rehabbed 17 motherfucking times. When they wheeled him in on a gurney, he looked emaciated and near death. Perhaps he was. After three days of abstinence and good fatty foods, he looked a hundred percent better. Chris, I think his name was. 17 motherfucking times?! You gotta be kidding me. No. 17 times.

I remember I had thought to myself, well, I'll never be like that! Really, Adam? Are you sure?

No. No, I'm not sure. I am far from sure. This demon rivals the fallen Michael. Even when I am not tossing two or sixteen back, the demons are gibbering in my ear. "Have one, A. It's fine. Everyone does it. You need to relax. You need to getcho buzz on. Have three, have 2900, I don't care. Just have some. You deserve it. It's the weekend. It's the middle of the week and you've had a hard day. Drink up. Drink! It tastes good. It's snappy. It's cool. You're a writer; all writers worth their salt drink like fish. You can control it just fine. You can have a six and call it quits; I know you can!"

The demons can suck my balls. They're always promising but never delivering.

But. And I'll still tip the beer can or bottle. It's what I do; it is who I am. Damn.

Damn.