4 years ago

Four years ago today, I had my last taste of alcohol. It was a 16 ounce can of Budweiser, bought from the corner store with nickels, dimes, and pennies (no quarters – I had exhausted my supply of quarters the previous day). I drank it the morning my dad was flying out to Seattle to help me pack my life up and come back to New Jersey.

I had been drinking non-stop for about four months, and quite heavily for months leading up to this, minus two short breaks while I was in detox ( I drank shortly after leaving both of them – one within a couple weeks and the last one within 6 hours). I’m still not sure how I was able to keep my job without arousing any suspicions (maybe I did, I don’t know). I smoked enough cigarettes, I remember thinking, that the smell of smoke would probably mask any other scents (like the alcohol that was pouring out of me, or the pot that I always had on me).

One of the oddest things I did was faked a suicide attempt. I had gone to a detox, and needed an excuse for work. I remember phoning my HR person and telling her I was in the hospital and would be for a few days, and that I couldn’t explain any more (I didn’t have a lie ready, so I needed some time to come up with one; also I figured I could leave it at that and they wouldn’t pry into my private life – which they didn’t, God bless them). The day I got out was actually the day before my last day of work, so I would have to go in to tie up some loose ends, and say some goodbyes.

That night, after stopping at a few bars for a few drinks, I went to the Walgreens and got some gauze and medical tape. The next morning, when it came time to get ready for work, I placed a large rectangle of gauze long-way from my wrist to about halfway up my forearm, and gave it a good taping. All of my workmates knew I was in the hospital, but that’s all they knew. And I hoped when they saw the bandage that they wouldn’t ask any questions. Yes, I was trying to make it look like I had slit my wrist so that I could avoid answering questions about my detox stay. Brilliant, dude, just brilliant.

It’s amazing how far I was willing to go out of my way to avoid the humiliation that I thought would come from admitting an alcohol problem. Somehow, suicide just seemed like it would somehow paint me in a much better light than drinking. I’ve always had this fantasy of myself as some “tortured artist” or something, and this suicide-act fit right into the fantasy world I had for how I wanted others to see me. If they asked, I had an answer prepared: “it was an accident.” And that’s it.

I remember that last day at work, and saying goodbye to people, and telling at least four people “it was an accident,” but most of all, I remember how much I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of there so I could start drinking. I was going to be unemployed for about 3 months, collecting unemployment checks, and spending most of my time doing what I would rather be doing more than anything in the world: drinking.

That lasted for not even three weeks, when my father decided he was going to fly to Seattle to bring me back to New Jersey before I got killed. And during those three weeks, I spent every waking hour drunk, or hung over planning my next drink, or unconscious somewhere. It was during those three weeks that I cracked my rib (don’t ask how, because I honestly don’t remember), I fell into some bushes and cut up my face and my legs, I lost my bicycle (though it may have been stolen, but I’m pretty sure I just lost it)… I was doing all of this, I swore to myself, because I was so upset and depressed that She broke up with me – this wonderful woman who I was ready to move to Maine to be with, but she broke up with me while I was in detox.
At the time, I guess I needed an excuse.