I Got Drunk And Figured Out Why I am So Pissed Off
By: Jason Weiland
Tags: Mental Illness, Self, Mental Health, Drinking, Anger

I Got Drunk And Figured Out Why I am So Pissed Off

File this post under “things I tried that bombed spectacularly.” At least I got a look into my mind with no filter

Photo by Andrey Zvyagintsev on Unsplash

Trigger Warning — if you are dealing with your own heavy shit right now, you may want to read something a little happier than this jumble of angst and fear.

Twelve days into NaNoWriMo and my life is unraveling. It started OK, just as it always does, but it’s almost like my demons know I’m trying to accomplish something and increase the frequency and brutality of their attacks on my mind.

Nightmares riddle my sleep — childhood memories and snapshots of events in my life that are molested and rubbed with filth.

During the day, my anxiety level is off the charts, and I cannot seem to get past this depression and the feeling that I may never be good enough to do anything with my life and writing.

The voices are slobbering and moaning with glee because they know the walls I erect to keep my mind safe are crumbling.

The fucking voices are killing me.

So I did the only thing I could do last night, I got drunk. At that moment, the only alternative seemed to involve blood and pain, and there is no way I am stepping on that road again.

A week ago, I bought all the blueberry Soju on the grocery shelf because I go all out when I get obsessed with something. After spending a few hours in the freezer, they were ready to drink.

I sat at my laptop and scrolled through my blessedly Trump-free timeline until everything stopped making sense. When I looked up, I had finished four bottles. I stumbled to the kitchen, bottles clanking against me, and grabbed another from the freezer.

I was standing at the fridge, staring into the depths and hoping some Cheetos would magically appear when I realized what was going on in my head.

Nothing.

Silence.

I felt nothing, saw nothing, and heard nothing. No screeching, no voices. The warmth spreading over my body replaced anxiety and I smiled my first smile in a few days.

I was so wasted my mental illness went away! I was so relieved that the first thing I did was lie down in bed and give my mind a little dreamless sleep.

I woke still very drunk, and with the sleep still clinging to my body, and drank another bottle — this time peach. The symptoms of my illness were still gone, and the more I thought about the realization that the only time I can manage my brain is when I am so drunk I can hardly walk, the more pissed off I became.

Writing seemed like a good idea, so I grabbed my Soju and stared at a blank page.

I think this is what I wrote:

When I woke to get some work done, I found I was still drunk, so I grabbed another bottle of Soju and sat down at the laptop to create. The usual chorus of voices in my head, compliments of schizoaffective psychosis, are gone, replaced with a happy melody and the need to continue writing the words appearing in my mind.

I am quite drunk.

I thank the Koreans who carefully crafted this rice wine and added fairy dust so that all the words I’m typing sound as they come from the mind of a great writer like Hemingway. I don’t know why it took me so long to try writing when my brain is relaxed and receptive, but here I am. Lucky you, who happen to be reading the brilliance of many bottles of blueberry Soju and the pickled mind of a writer pushed to the edge of sanity one time too many.

I feel like, at this time, I need to be as honest as possible because the truth serum is pulsing through my veins, and the barriers I typically erect to keep from embarrassing myself have vanished.

There is some shit I want to say.

If you read one of my recent posts about God and the universe, you probably came out of it confused about whether I was an atheist or a madman. I wanted to say something to whoever is controlling the universe, even if it turns out that everything happens because of millions of years of chance and evolution.

If there is a God or a force that controls what happens in our lives, I have a message for you.

What.The.Fuck?

What the actual fuck is mental illness? I mean, you give a “normal” mind to underserving peons, and they squander it either by joining the cult of Trump or doing the opposite of everything you should do to be a success.

Then you have me and my brethren, who only want to find their place in the world and a little of that sexy winner’s juice that the infomercials promote at 3 am. Instead, you fuck up our thought processes and make us hear and see things that aren’t there. You make us depressed and anxious in crowds of people.

You make us so fucked up that we can only operate in survival mode, and deny us hope although we crave the good things in life like everyone else.. When we try to push ourselves out of the darkness and climb the ladder of success, a society that stigmatizes mental illness slaps us. We never had a chance to do anything with our lives.

It would have been good to know that before we made an effort.

What the fuck?

I’m not trying to have a pity party, but this is seriously messed up. I’m given enough intelligence to know that there is more to life than what I have, but I cannot experience it because I have an abnormal mind?

Why bother letting us have the wants and the need to climb to success when you deny us entrance to the club most of the time?

What.The.Fuck?