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Rated: 13+ · Other · Personal · #1322521
Thoughts of an alcoholic before she chose to save herself.
The Bottom Of A Bottle.

I am obsessed, infatuated with a curse. I am in love with a demon.
My family tells me, I have a sick addiction to all things morbid and destructive.
Perhaps this is true, perhaps it is not. Either way I do not care. I do as I please, I always have.
I am lectured repeatedly that the liquor will rob me of a fulfilling life and perhaps bring about my own premature death.

I drink to become numb. I drink to escape a reality I have never wished to be a part of. The chilled luscious liquid snakes its way through my body and fills my hollowed soul.
I become something I want to be. I become a shadow.
I become invisible. I am invincible.
Ironic isnt it?

I need it. I rely on it. I have to have it. It is my crutch.
When I fall it tenderly picks me up. It offers me all the support I need.
I know it will be the death of me, yet I take that risk.
I do not fear the reaper.

If I did not have this addiction I would be dead already.
The liquor feeds the demon within me. The real me. It has witnessed my behaviour at the worst of times yet it does not abandon me. It readily offers me a comfort and I greedily take it.

The object of my obsession is always faithful to me.
It does not let me down.
It shields me from all things destructive. With it, I have all the company I need.
I need nothing more.
I do not feel pain. I do not feel guilt. I feel nothing. I am unable to feel.
I always believed this to be a good thing.

As I look down to the bottom of my last empty bottle, I softly put my lips to it and I kiss it, I force myself to say goodbye and I throw it away I know this is to be our final parting.

Something strange and unusual happens to me.

For the first time in a long time tears come to my green eyes and cascade down my face and I am able to feel their warmth.
I run my fingers through my dark hair and I am able to feel the sensation.
I cannot recall the last time I felt anything. It excites me and frightens me.

I reach the formidable tinted sliding doors of the foundation that is to save me from myself.
My reflection is mirrored off the dark doors and I force myself to look at it.

I am a mess.

This is the first time in my life I acknowledge this.
As I cross the line from the world I have always taken comfort in, into the unknown, I feel terrified. I feel nauseous.
I wonder what will become of me.

I want to flee but I will not.
I accept that I am worth saving and I force myself to walk through the doors.
They close behind me.
I do not look back.
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