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Off the Wagon

I alluded to it on Facebook earlier in the month, but there have been some family related issues going on in my life.  I’ll spare you the gory details, but suffice it to say we were relieved to find out her tumor was benign, and won’t be requiring any cranial surgery.  We were all very relieved to hear the news.

Unfortunately, that was the same day I fell off the wagon, and had my first shot of whiskey in around two years.  I’m not a member of AA, but if I was, I’d have to hand in my chip right about now.

I have my reasons for quitting the creature.  First, and probably foremost for some, I’m a Baha’i.  Throughout my studies, I’ve found that Baha’is are pretty laid back and accepting compared to literally every other religion I’ve found that didn’t later turn out to be a cult or a universal Unitarian church.  There’s very few things Baha’is frown upon it seems…  And unfortunately, Good ole whiskey is one of them.

More specifically, though, I came to the same realization most people in their late twenties come to when they spend their early and mid twenties blitzed: “Fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life.”  That’s from Supernatural, son, so you know it’s good advice.  For two years or so, I’ve given up the drink, and I’ve settled with being fat, SOBER, and stupid instead.

Until this family emergency came up.  I’m not necessarily proud of this episode, but if I’ve learned anything, I’ve learned stress, anxiety, and the feeling of hopelessness can make the strongest willed individual with an iron-clad determination to quit their vice suddenly pick it up again.  I saw it happen to my dad when he vowed to quit smoking and grandma ended up passing away seven or eight months later, and to my own personal disappointment, as well as the possible disappointment of Baha’i God, I fell victim to it earlier today.

It wasn’t even GOOD whiskey, either.  At my most active whiskey consumption, I was a huge fan of Black Bottle.  I often settled for Johnny Walker (red and black label respectively), Jameson’s, and if I was feeling especially wealthy that month, maybe a little Red Breast.  All we had in the shelf that day was a 3/4s empty bottle of fucking Patty’s.  Patty’s is a whiskey you drink for flavor, because I vaguely remembered trying it at one point, and while I liked the way it tasted, it didn’t even get me remotely buzzed.

Let me tell you, son: you go around two years with no alcohol, two shots of Patty’s will make you wobble.  I was looking forward to forgetting my woes, getting wobbly as fuck, and maybe watching a little Game Grumps on the side.

Then, it hit me: the single worst back pain I have ever experienced.  I don’t think I’ve ever felt such an agony in my life.  I was still buzzed mentally, but my buzz emotionally was killed immediately.  I literally found myself on the floor, groaning and panting as my back continued to ache like nothing I’ve ever felt before.

The good news is it eventually passed after a couple minutes.  I was able to catch my breath, and I was able to stand back up with very minimal twinges at absolute worst.  I waited a few hours, and ended up popping Advil in order to remedy that.  Here and now, I’m fine, but I still remember the episode clearly.

Resolving never to go through that again, I pretty much dumped the rest of the whiskey down the drain.  In hindsight, I probably should’ve done that a long time ago.  I don’t even remember how I ended up with that whiskey, though I suspect it ended up getting bundled up with the rest of some leftovers I volunteered to take with me after a neighborhood party.

I don’t believe god is a spiteful, vengeful deity.  I believe that if he really wanted to, then sure, he could nuke the entire planet and start all over again.  However, I feel like this is punishment I brought on myself.  All the same, I’m pretty much obligated to recite a prayer for forgiveness this morning, now that I’m finally able to stand up and function.

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