But the loss of religion, shame and guilt left me without morals. Quite by chance, I found that I was amoral by choice.
Addiction might be called a curse, but that’s only one way to look at it. Alcohol addiction used to be a way of tapping into a power I didn’t have, a release of pain I had trapped inside me.
They say if you can’t imagine going to a party on a Friday night without alcohol to socially lubricate your interactions then you have a dependency on alcohol. But if I am to give myself any label at all nowadays, I would say I am a mild alcoholic. But ‘mild alcoholism’ is still alcoholism.
It’s not what I know I’ve done. But what I don’t know I’ve done. Yawning black holes of nothingness taunt me with their awful possibilities.
The guilt of who I am, what I have done and now what I continue to do is so shameful that I cannot face the pain. It is better to display no remorse. There is no point in holding an image together that is shattered and worthless.
I rarely travelled further then a 2 kilometre radius and more often than not, I brought the party back home (10 people partying in a 13 squared metres apartment, that’s no mean feat).
Why? Because I knew that the closer I was to my bed, the easier it would be to pass out safely.
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