View Full Version : recovery(part 1)

paul wojnicki
08-12-04, 09:46 AM
Being the eternal optimist Iíve always found it hard to accept peoples criticism of my habits, particularly my drinking.

"Shut up you daft prick" would come my reply "Some people like golfing after work , I like drinking"

And that would be the end of the matter as far as I was concerned. Iíd deliberately ignore their concerned looks casting them as busy bodies that needed to lighten up. After all the blokes I enjoyed drinking with were all heavier drinkers than myself, these guys were all in reasonable health so what did I have to fear? Myself it would seem. I guess some people just get hooked faster or easier than others. it all started with a few beers after each day at work, normal enough, then id start skipping work if the hangovers were severe enough and go have a few to take the edge off it. When my attendance at work became an issue i took to sneaking booze in for consumption at the desk, either mixing rum into my 2 litre bottle of coke or a couple of Stellaís in my briefcase. Id pour the contents of the can into a coffee mug with a large head that made it look somewhat like a cappuccino. Stellacinos, I christened them. My drinking buddy Phil preferred to call them power mugs. But the buzz was the same, you could sit there drinking at the desk even with the boss 5 meters away, simple but effective. Pretty soon the hangovers disappeared and the banging in my head became background noise that I had gotten used to. All off this is pretty standard stuff, people like myself are everywhere. Not just the bums you see on the street. At my first, and last, AA meeting most of the other guys were professionals. Ex professionals, anyway, who blew their careers and/or families on the bottle. Almost all of us have woken up in jail cells, on the streets and more often than not in our own beds having been marinating in our own ****.

It wasnít out of character for me to wake up fully clothed, i often passed out the moment I got home. This particular morning the smell of human excrement filled my nostrils. I groaned, thinking I had **** myself again. But this morning was different. The sloppy brown mess, for some peculiar reason, was on the outside of my jeans. It looked particularly disgusting in contrast to the cream coloured jeans I had strode out in the previous night. How in gods name had I fouled the outside of my breaches, this was a mystery that would have to be solved later. For now I had to get rid of those stinking Levis in case anyone called round. Opening the wheelie bin i had noticed it was still full. ****ing dustmen must have been on strike again. Leaving them on top of the garbage was out the question so I began digging rubbish out so that I could bury my shame, after all I had to protect the last remnants of my dignity. The neighbours had lost all respect for me months ago but id be damned if the bin men were going to point out the extent of my depravity. As I dug through the empty beer cans and the rotting tropical fish I reflected that it might have been wiser to flush them down the bog, the fish, not the Levis. I also wondered how long they had been dead before I had noticed. Had they started feeding on each other when the big guy passed out on the couch stopped sprinkling those stinking flakes into the tank. With my grisly task over I retreated to the safety of the bath. My hands were shaking like a geigometer needle at Chernobyl and in the bath was the only place I felt truly safe by now. Id been having panic attacks for the last month or so that felt like full on heart attacks. The doctor told me that my heart was fine but my nerves were shot to pieces. Heíd given me a prescription for pills of some description and a load of unsolicited advice about living a healthy lifestyle. I was willing to take on the advice about cutting the caffeine and sugar and even the part about regular exercise but what was this clown talking about cutting out the alcohol. This wasnít an option. Only 2 things calmed me down, the cold baths and the booze and I couldnít very well stay i the ****ing bath all day now could I. Maybe I should take up scuba diving. Hmm. That should take care of the exercise part too. Clambering out of my icy cold sanctuary i dried myself with a towel that looked like it hadnít been washed in weeks and made a mental note to pick up some soap powder on my way to the local pool.

The pool was no place for someone in my state, today must be Saturday or some school holiday because it was full of screaming kids. That noise is fiercer than any hangover in the world. The sound of a hundred brats having a whale of a time while the constant blasting of the lifeguards whistle rebukes them for running bombing and petting overenthusiastically. I approached the young lady working the desk. Her name badge read Amanda, she was about 21 with pony tailed hair pulled back so tightly it appeared to be lifting her pencil thin eyebrows to a point halfway up her forehead, apart from this she could have been very pretty. Her high pitched voice echoed around the tiled building

"Hiya, one for a swim?".

"Er no love, Iíve come to see about scuba diving"

This seemed to have a positive impression on her and she toyed with her hair, starring at me whistfully as she rang through to Tim, the man in charge of the local sub aqua club.

"Hiya Tim, thereís someone down ere, come to see you about scuba diving"

Tim was down in an instant, flashing me a perfect white smile he squeezed my hand, hard. he was obviously the sort that thought you could tell a lot about someone by their handshake. I could tell from his vice like grip that Tim was a prick; heíd no doubt taken up scuba instructing in order to lay women. Amanda was frantically rearranging her hair I could tell she was eager to join the legions of conquests Timmy had no doubt racked up. Women loved guys like this. It really made me ill. Tim had obviously sized me up sharpish too, his smile had waned the second I gave him my name; no doubt he could smell stale alcohol despite the fact that I had brushed my teeth twice this morning. Iíve often been told that my body odour smells of booze, maybe that was it. One of the first things I had to do was fill in a questionnaire regarding the state of my health. I wondered whether my panic attacks constituted a mental illness, but I decided not to disclose it as it may hinder my foray into self-help therapy. I filled out the questionnaire and agreed to turn up on Tuesday night for an introduction to scuba session. Job done. Too easy. Timmy hadn't bothered to hang around while I filled in the questionnaire no doubt I wasnít his type.

Once I was back in the bath I started plotting the next step on my road to recovery. As far as I could see sexual stimulation took my mind off the anxiety dogged my day. The sweating palms, the pounding heart and constant shaking all seemed to evaporate once I was turned on, for whatever reason. As with staying in the bath, jacking off to porn, 24 hours a day seemed a little inconvenient. For one thing it would mean that i would have to stay at home and thatís not exactly recovery. The bills would soon be piling up id only got 4 weeks severance pay from work and I desperately needed a job. Like a certain famous Greek before me i sat in my bath and cried Eureka at the ingenious idea that came to me. Once again I climbed out and towelled off, cursing myself for forgetting the soap-powder and grabbed the yellow pages. Turning to adult shops, I found one in the area and punched the numbers into my handset.

"Private lines" came a gruff sounding Yorkshire man at the other end of the line.

"Er yes I was wondering if you needed a shop assistant" I enquired.

"When can you start?"

"As soon as you need me"

"Come down this aft, and ill give you an interview"

"Okay thatís great thanks".

Well that was easy enough I thought, the only down side being the prospect of an interview. I was bound to fold in such a situation; I started sweating at the mere prospect. I grabbed a couple of cans from the fridge and climbed back into the tub. The effect of the booze was amazing, after only 2 cans all my fears were washed away, for now at least. I had to get down the porn shop, fast. It was only about a kilometre away and I decided to take the docs advice about exercise and get a jog on. On my way I stopped at the local shop to buy a pack of extra strong mints to disguise the smell of the beer, while there I eventually remembered my washing powder and set off jogging, sucking on my tremors, a box of Daz ultra tucked under my left arm.