LIke I said at the end of the previous post, pay back was hell. I was crazy mad to get even w/ every person who had hurt me. And, for a time, after I started drinking, I considered every person I ran into to be a person who had hurt me. And, when I ran into these people, I’d literally run into them, stomp on their face and try to run them over. At least it seemed that way. I was always ready to throw down w/ these so-called assholes. Always ready to kick ass even though I almost always ended up bein’ the guy whose ass got beat. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was I stood up and told these folks what they did to me and how I thought they should pay for their sins. And, though, ultimately, they usually stood over me in triumph, I always got back up taunting, “Is that all you got? Is that all?” And that was usually all they had and, when they walked away in disgust, I felt a surge of “vengeance is mine,” a certain drunken smugness because I had tormented them w/out ceasing and, though I was beaten, battered and bloody, I was undaunted in my antagonism and I had made them suffer. And that’s all I wanted.
Too bad, for the most part, I was takin’ it out on the wrong folks. They barely knew who I was much less why I was accusing them of all sorts of crimes against my humanity. When I’d sober up and realize they did nothing to warrant my vicious physical attack, I felt ashamed. My stomach would be in torment and, sometimes, I’d puke. I mean, my toss had something to do w hangover/alcohol withdrawal, but it was also due to great remorse felt for my mistake and how it caused harm to those w/ whom I had no real grudge.
I was ashamed of my behavior and I wanted to apologize. But I didn’t. “Fuck ’em,” I’d say out loud to myself. “No one’s ever apologized to me.”
So I continued my decent into alcohol fueled oblivion and I did a good job of making sure no one wanted me around. Soon, everyone I knew acted like they didn’t know me. I had been saying, “I wish they’d all leave me alone.” But I didn’t like it when they did. I didn’t like it.
I don’t remember a good part of the last two years of my drinking. All I know is: I’d wake in the drunk tank sometimes w/ my kidneys hurtin’ so bad I couldn’t stand straight. One time I noticed I was pissin’ blood. I don’t know how long that lasted coz, soon as I was out of jail, I was drunk. Last time I was in jail, my arresting officer showed up at my cell said, ” You’re like a rabid dog. That’s why I was goin’ to drive around the corner and let the guy with the shotgun put you out of your misery…But I couldn’t do that to him.”
A year later, I had been sober for a year. I’d like to say I felt better but I didn’t. I was back to bein’ responsible and I was scared I no longer had the ability or desire to be responsible. I thought all responsibility was like the forced responsibility of my childhood. I equated responsibility with misery. I thought it a soulless exercise that resulted in extinguishment of joy. I was not excited about my new life but I knew I had to stay sober if I wanted to live. And, much as I hated to admit it, the desire to live coursed strong through my veins. So I accepted and faced my fear of responsibility.