Alcoholic wakes up in the morning...(new excerpt from 'Soul Cancer')

Aspen, Colorado, January 2007

Am I still asleep?  I think so. I can't see anything. I open my eyes.  I still can't see anything. I have a blanket wrapped around my head to keep the light out, so I see black even when my eyes are open.

Is that chirping? I'm hearing something. I think it's the chirping. 2, maybe 3 chirping sounds.  Damnit.  It must be the birds.  The fucking birds chirping.  There's no avoiding it now. I must face the fact that a new day is, indeed, beginning, and that, reluctantly, I'm still here, alive and breathing, to witness this terrifying ordeal. I am awake. And I'm horrified.

I first try to pretend it's not really happening -- that it's still dark out -- that the new day has yet to begin.  So I can just slip back into unconsciousness -- back into the darkness. Alone. Quiet and alone.  But my brain has other ideas -- it keeps reminding me that a new day is upon us, and that I must wake up (officially) and get out of bed.  I dread the thought of accepting such a profoundly discomforting suggestion.....the suggestion that I simply 'be.'  Just be. Exist. And continue to exist until one day when perhaps I will never again awaken when the morning light and the dramatic chirping continue to torture my soul to no avail.  Yes, that would be nice.

Morning Ritual

I feel it now. The rapid heartbeat. A symptom of the anxiety coursing through my veins. The anxiety itself a symptom of my alcoholic condition that imprisons me in this privately logical world in which I exist.  I must seek relief from this relentless anxiety.......a nervous state with such profundity that it prevents me from functioning at all.  I've got to get some booze or some pills in me so I can think, so I can function.  But first, I must vomit.  Because simply the thought of consuming the poisons to which I am addicted is so incessantly nauseating.  I heave and heave, emptying the contents of my stomach into on or around my toilet. Violently. Like a projectile. Projectile vomiting. Only there is nothing inside of me -- I hadn't eaten in a couple of days -- what comes out is just some strange bilious fluid that smells rancid, which makes me nauseous. So I vomit some more.  All in all, I devote about twelve minutes to vomiting in order to properly start the day.

I'm dehydrated.  Feel like I'm dying of thirst.  I manage to drink a few sips from a bottle of spring water to soothe my dried out innards.  And then I vomit that up with due haste.  What I'm really reaching for is that bottle of vodka.  That one litre bottle of medicine. The solution.  It contains a mixture of my own making. 90% vodka, 10% Gatorade -- something my palate can just barely tolerate.  But it does the trick, nonetheless.  The difficult part is getting a large amount of the solution into me via oral consumption without vomiting any of it up, rendering the vomited portion economically wasteful and physiologically pointless.

Ahh....relief.

I manage to take a few sips of my solution, gagging several times, yet able to keep myself from vomiting for the time being.  What a relief.  This is wonderful news.  This means I will likely be able to get properly drunk this morning without the usual accompanying mess.

Yes,  a few more sips, and my stomach warms.  As does the blood flowing through my arteries and veins and into my brain.  Only now, just now, and just a small window of now, do I fell, somewhat, normal.

Now I'm ready to face the day.....!


Peace/Warm Regards:
Jude Blues