January 8, 2011

I wake up in a fog. I don’t remember the previous evening and I am pissed that I drank all of my vodka. I know that it is virtually impossible for me to get more. I don’t have a liscence, I don’t have money, Brad has vowed never to buy for me again. I am hungover/still drunk/ and I physically need a drink to get through the day. I have to work my charm. I will find a way.

I muster up the courage to go downstairs and face my sure to be angry husband. I know what awaits- Where did you get that vodka? When are you going to stop? Do you remember so and so and so and so? I have been there a million times and it never gets easier. It is shameful. But not shameful enough to stop drinking. These mornings are 100% preventable, yet, vodka is more important.

I get through the routine morning after questions, and I proceed to my mission - get Brad to buy me vodka. I manipulate. As we are in the you need to stop drinking phase of our discussion, I drop the bomb. I’ll stop drinking Monday. Just get me through the weekend, and I will stop Monday, I promise. I cannot make it through today without a drink, but if you buy me vodka I will wean myself off of it by Monday. No he says. He will not enable me. He is done enabling me. He told himself after my DUI, never again. I am persistent and must make a good argument. Mission accomplished. He will buy me vodka. Agin, I breath a sigh of relief and excitement. Soon enough, I will be drinking.

It is 8 am. Sadly enough, I know the local package store opens at 8 and I want him to get up and go right away. He, clearly, doesn’t see the need to go at such an early hour in the morning. So not an alcoholic. I am dying, shaking, foggy. It is one of those mornings where I need a drink to feel sober. I love those mornings.

I watch the clock hit 8:00 and I can’t believe he is still laying there, not getting me my vodka. I tell him to go or I am taking a nap. As if that is a good threat. If you don’t help me get drunk first thing in the morning, I am going to take a nap and sober up. After making the same pointless threat a few times, he goes to the local package store. It is only 8:30, but that was the longest 30 minutes ever. I need to steady myself. He reminds me that he doesn’t like doing this and this is the last time.

As soon as he walks through the door with my sweet Smirnoff melon vodka, I calm down. Just seeing the bottle calms my nerves. I make my “martini.” I am, afterall, a bartender. I take the bottle of vodka, take the top off, and pour into a martini glass. I drink it down, at room temperature, like a tall glass of water after a hard workout. Ahhhhhhhh. Life is good. For a short minute.