I'm an alcoholic

"All adventurous women do (are)." Hannah Horvath.

Just over a year ago I got wind of a rumour that someone I lived with briefly, though held dearly for many years there and who many of you may know and still wear her swimwear - was going around town calling me an alcoholic.

I was shocked, obviously though I’d be the first to admit that I am a little naive, I’m also 21 years out of high school and just didn’t think we or women still did this stuff to each other anymore.

I laughed it off briefly before I burst out crying because even though this bitch wasn’t old enough for her prefrontal cortex to have had developed so to be able to form a rational thought yet, I still felt she was onto me. Or onto something. Even if more honestly she had really seen nothing, or not the half of it (but didn’t have a problem helping herself to it).

And before I go on, I won’t dismiss that this was inherently wrong (as were many of her details) as well as painful and extremely humiliating, though I am old enough and ugly enough and therefore I would assume my frontal lobe formed enough to know that we are only activated by words to the extent in which we believe them.

Despite being delivered on the back of the worst year of my life, the year my Dad died, and everything that came before it and in-between, and the general ick list of reasons life has given me to sit down and have a drink, I couldn’t help but wonder if I had or still have a problem.

But what’s in an alcoholic? The definitions aren’t so straight up online.

There’s dependence, for sure, I will admit. Because when life gets tough and one could say it certainly has been - it’s nice to have a gin. And a wine on the weekend. But if that’s addiction, why hasn’t anyone called me out on my screen time, and ruminating.

And I don’t know what to call her either? Him? I’ve always thought vulgar of the term drinking. As both superpower and infliction, in any case ‘it’ has been my friend. When people were nowhere to be found, whether I away or they had plain and simply fucked off.

I also just really enjoy it, it being one or two, maybe three. I sip to taste, like I do my coffee. Both equally delicious. And before I forget - I am also a wog! And no shit, traumatised. I watched my father die and sat and held his dead body for a quite a long time before I never saw him again. Before being sued by his “best friend.”

And it’s not heroin. It’s actually the best thing.

Anyway, I hope I’m not coming off as if I’m just making excuses. At the end of the day, I am what I am and happen to like that person, which includes all my shit and darkness, which exists at the same time as being curious about a life where there happens to be more to than waiting for 5pm to roll around, or “12 o’clock somewhere” on weekends.

I guess to be continued..

PS

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