I sit in the bathroom stall on floor 13 of Site-88. I cry for a little while and try not to vomit.
The problem started small. A few beers after work. I took a drink. Then another. I didn't know this feeling was possible, I was warm. I was happy.
Midnight became dawn and I was still chasing it. Long since thrown out of whatever dive bar we'd haunted. I was in someone's house. With people I don't recognize in the mirror. We laughed. I had another drink.
I drove to the site. I sleepwalked through my workday. Back to the start. I was there in the bathroom for a few minutes to get myself together. Time to go home.
I carry everything with me. This time I don't bother going out with friends. My brain releases the same endorphins in the presence of my dining table as it does with people who might care about me. I forget. I wake up an hour after. I drink again.
Warm. Happy.
Hours become months. People know I have a problem. I have to get it under control or else I'm useless to them.
I'm useless to them anyway. That's why I have a problem.
Later that night. I drink some more. It doesn't keep the voices out, but it does take the edge off. This is impossible to carry.
I go to the sink. I pour out all the bottles. I can be good. For a few hours it's true. Then I see the empty bottles in the garbage can. I'm not drinking because I can't, not because I'm better.
I go to bed. I cannot sleep. I cry for a little while and try not to vomit. Minutes become hours. I'm staring at the ceiling and feeling like I'm dying. This is torture.
I've made a mistake. I know facts and figures about this. I just need to push through. The muscle shakes, the nausea, the pure distilled pain in my head. If I can just get to the other side I'll be alright.
I won't go into work tomorrow. I'll call and say I'm sick. They'll accept the shared lie.
Shivering. Hurting. This is my own doing.
Of course there's a bottle in the end table. Of course I failed to find them all when I was good. I'm not good anymore. I pull it out. There's no struggle. I drink it immediately. Before it even has time to hit my bloodstream I feel better. Never good. But better.
I go outside and lay on the damp green grass. The deep black sky and cool night air suffuse my being. I am alone and wondrous and this feeling is beautiful. The stars twinkle in the night. I want to be here always. I drink again. And again.
I wake up on my side. The light is blinding. People are yelling. A tube is down my throat. Concerned people are trying to look into my eyes.
I want to skip this moment in time. They try to fix me. They save my body. They don't know where the rot is.
The next day I make a decision. No more. Everyone knows now. I can just live. I don't get out of the hospital for 2 weeks. I'm 14 days sober.
I'm not alone at home. The Foundation sent someone to monitor me. To make sure I'm good. To turn 14 days into 15.
A month later I'm back at work. Light duty for a while.
Day 63 was not a particularly rough day. We had pizza and pasta for lunch. I laughed with my friends. The drive home was peaceful. Beautiful music on the radio. I go up to my apartment. I nod to my neighbor. The one that called the ambulance for me. She smiles back.
I close the door and lock it. I go into the kitchen. I drink until I feel love again. I cry for a little while and try not to vomit. I pass out on the kitchen floor. I wake up in the morning.
No one comes to save me.