The Beginning of The End

Nicole is driving me home from the gym because I do not have a licence. It has been suspended for 120 long days. I drove drunk. Really drunk. And I thank God every day, well not the drunkest of drunk days, but most days, that I got that DUI. It saved my life.

On the way home from the gym I am working myself up- obsessing over how to get alcohol for the weekend. A snow storm is coming, I don’t have much money, and this is my last chance to get alcohol for the next few days. My husband, Brad, certainly wont help me get any- he thinks I have quit drinking. I can’t focus on what Nicole is saying to me. I am obsessed with getting alcohol for the weekend. My palms are sweating, I have butterflies in my stomach, my mind is racing. . . must get alcohol. . . . over and over again in my brain. She is talking about something or other, and I am nodding along, all the while thinking, I have to get her to stop at the packy. It is such a burden to me that her husband will buy alcohol for her. She never has to stop. I always have to ask, beg for her to stop to feed my addiction. It is humiliating. But not humiliating enough for me to go one day without asking her to stop. I muster up the courage to ask her, and make sure I let her know that I am not getting too much. I don’t want her to think she is enabling me. I overexplain myself. I wont drink too much. This is my only stop for the weekend and I only have a little bit of money I tell her. I want to rest her mind. She is not enabling me to get drunk. I want to make sure she knows that. Simply so that she will stop for me again on Monday. She says yes, and as she pulls into the package store, I feel that same sense of excitement as when I was 18. Soon enough, I will be drinking. . . Ahhhhhhh

Now, what am I going to get. I have about 8 dollars. A bottle of vodka. I don’t know the difference between a pint or a fifth, but I know there is an 8 dollar bottle of raspberry flavored vodka and I get it. I decide it will last me the weekend, 3 days. I ration it out in my head that I can do about 3 shots each night before bed and it will last me through Sunday night. I ask the all too familiar faces behind the cash register to pull me a bottle of raspberry Smirnoff and pay them 8 dollars in change, much of it, actually in change. Few, I am calm. I have my alcohol. I can now continue with my day.

The bottle is calling my name and I decide I can do just one shot earlier than planned. I do. It is so good that I do a few more. Before I know it, my bottle is gone by 7:30. I am drunk. Really drunk. Another Friday night ruined. I argue with Brad, become the drunk bitch, and go to bed for the night.