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Confessions
of a Depressive Binge Drinker
It
all comes down to a decision. It’s the
decision to have another pint, or the decision
to find another pub, or the decision to stop off
at an off licence on the way home from work.
Perhaps, with flippant
hindsight, I can call such nights ‘errors of
judgement,’ but there are far too many of them
to dismiss so readily. This is why I’ve sought
help.
I hate waiting rooms. There are posters
plastered to the white walls claiming that I’m
not alone, but surely loneliness is the whole
point. That’s the reason behind it all. My
stomach churns apprehensively and I’m
conscious that I keep fidgeting, picking up
magazines from the table and throwing them back
down. Her name is Janey, I’ve been told.
It’s a good name for a therapist. Janey. I
like it. But what will she think of me, coming
to see her because I’m out of control. Am I
just another foolish alcoholic?
I’m expecting her to wander out and read out
my name. “Patrick Hardy.” It will be very
embarrassing if she does that, read aloud my
name to the waiting room, even if I am the only
person here. I was recommended to the practise
by one of my few friends. I’m paranoid that
someone might see me here; it feels as if I
should be ashamed. I look nervously around. The
silence is punctuated by the ticking of the
wall-clock.
“Patrick,” she smiles warmly as she walks
in, holding out her hand. I follow her through
to the room. She asks me how I am, and about my
day, and other such small talk. I notice how she
listens intently, her eyes fixed on mine
reflectively, interested. “So what happened
the other night?” She’s picked up the prompt
from me, when I mention the guilt I felt walking
past the pub.
“Christ. Waking up the next morning the bed
was all damp and I looked down and I’d vomited
in my sleep. I don’t remember having been
sick, it must’ve happened when I was asleep.
But then again, I don’t remember very much and
so maybe I was awake, just not in control. I
have no idea how I gotten home from the pub, or
how anything quite happened. I just don’t
know.
“I mean, there’s a certain point after which
I have no recollection. That scares me. Maybe I
behaved respectably, or maybe I was curled up in
the corner of the pub not saying anything.
It’s as if someone pulled a curtain down over
my eyes at this exact point. I remember ordering
another pint and then, then there’s just
blankness. I just don’t know.”
“So you’d been in the pub the night
before?” she says to fill the uncomfortable
silence. “There’s no need to tell me
anything you don’t want to, Patrick, I’m
only here to listen to what you feel comfortable
talking about.”
“No, it’s all right. It’s best to talk
about it; I want to do that… I met a friend
and we had a few beers and then he left and I
went to another pub and I can’t really
remember the rest. I don’t know if I was
drinking with anyone or if I was just by myself.
It’s as if my brain had stopped manufacturing
memories.”
Being content with life is about having memories
of times when you’ve been happy, I believe. It
follows that I can derive no pleasure from a
booze-raddled night that I’m unable to recall.
It occurs to me now that the entire purpose of
the hedonistic ‘life’s too short, live for
the moment’ lifestyle is dependent upon making
memories. Besides which, if I’d been drinking
out of enjoyment it wouldn’t bother me. It’s
part of the deal: you get drunk, make a fool of
yourself, and maybe throw up the next morning,
or on the bus home. But these nights recently
have been different: I drink because I’m
fed-up, there’s no pretence of enjoyment.
For a while I understand alcoholism. I don’t
pretend to understand it now, when I’m sober,
and never will do. But when I make that decision
for another pint, when another drink seems like
the solution, I understand clearly. Somewhere in
the alcohol-induced haze of the next morning I
realize how unhappy I can be, that I’m fed up
of being single, of having a job that makes me
want to cry at my desk, and living in a grotty
bedsit in South London. But still I find myself
returning to the pub, succumbing to the craving.
“I’m disappointed with myself, ashamed of
myself, disgusted at myself,” I tell Janey.
“It occurs to me now that all I ever do is
drink. Socially, I mean. I never go to the
cinema, or play any sport… My life is quite
empty, come to think of it. Why haven’t I
realized that before?”
“Have you ever thought about taking an evening
class in something? It’s a good chance to meet
new people, make some friends. You could do
something artistic, or learn a language. You
seem intelligent, Patrick, you just need to
apply yourself. Drinking shouldn’t be all
there is.”
“I’ve had plenty of friends but they all
move on for whatever reason. Often it’s
because they get to know me a bit better. I’ve
never had a close friend, but there’s usually
someone kicking around to drink with. It’s
incredible how you make friends when you need a
beer. But then they move on. ‘You’re too
morbid, Patrick, I find you too intensely
morbid,’ said one of my last friends. I
haven’t seen her since. But I know what she
means; I can understand that. But I’m eager to
improve, to move my life forward. That’s what
counts, isn’t it?
“I mean, yes there’s been some good times.
But then when you get a glimpse of being happy
you want more. I suppose I want a girlfriend
quite badly. I go out drinking and then I might
end up in a club, but I never have the
confidence to push things. I’m both too keen
and too shy. If that makes sense.”
“Have there been girls?”
“I try to ask girls out but I’m too fearing
of rejection. I become timid and hesitant and
drink myself into an uncontrollable frenzy. Amy,
Hannah, Debbie, Emma. They were the last four
girls I asked out. All said No. Maybe that’s
not an abnormal rejection rate, but it makes it
harder the next time. I expect to be knocked
back, and I don’t really like that. I’m a
naturally nervous person, and I find it
difficult to deal with rejection. It makes me
feel insufficient.”
“Who says you’re insufficient? I doubt that
very much.”
“I need four or five pints to feel
comfortable. But the comfort zone is quickly
surpassed and I’m into the mindset of a
drinker. Often I roll into work late the next
morning, fighting off a hangover, and my boss
comments on it. ‘You reek of beer,’ he’ll
say, but he never rises above condescension.
That dismissive tone of his voice, that’s
insulting. I admit I’ve got some problems, but
nothing too bad. I’m being positive that
things can improve, I just need a shot of
confidence, I need someone to do something that
might give me more confidence with which to
attack life. I need some vigour, don’t I?
“Maybe I’m not a very good person,” I stop
and think about the sentence. In the flow of
conversation I often say things I don’t
believe. “Maybe I’m not a very good person,
but I’m a quick learner. I can be a pleasant
person if someone’s willing to give me the
chance. You just get sucked into a vicious
circle and, I mean, you hit this downward
spiral…”
“I don’t like feeling like I want to cry all
the time, it makes me physically sick. It’s
then gets too easy to be dragged back down by
the booze, to not want to be seen to have
problems. The drink becomes a comfort. I often
need half a bottle of vodka before going to bed
to numb the boredom of it all. That’s bad at
my age, isn’t it?”
“It’s got nothing to do with age.”
“But I’m only twenty-six. I think I’m all
right, mostly. Other people don’t necessarily
have a problem with me even if they don’t like
me. The problems are of my own making. That’s
pretty bad, isn’t it? Christ, if only I could
meet a girl and have other things to take my
mind off of myself. All this wallowing in
self-pity, it’s shit really. I know that.”
Janey seems generally touched by my inability to
accomplish things. I continue: “I suppose what
is happening is that I see the means to
happiness not as self-adoration, like many
people, but as self-annihilation, when I’m
drinking.
“I have this recurring dream about a girl.
I’ve never liked anyone I’ve never met so
much, it’s as if we’re made for one another.
It’s only a dream but, Christ, I can even
smell her in that dream. I’m relentlessly
chasing her, in the pursuit of happiness, but I
know what happens. I mean, I’m chasing after
happiness and guiding myself into wanton
despair. ‘Don’t be so keen,’ advises an
onlooker in the dream, but I can’t risk
letting her go without knowing I’ve tried my
hardest.
“I ask her out, in the dream. Every time I ask
her in the same hesitant voice. ‘Look at
yourself, you can’t stand up!’ she says,
laughing. And she’s right, only then do I
realize that I’m unable to stand up straight
because I’m drunk. But sometimes we all need
support. I’m still looking at myself.”
Janey looks at me with—, what exactly? “Our
dreams our tied to our destinies,” she says.
“It’s a dream about hope and all the while
there’s hope to pull us through life, then we
get by okay. Let’s transform hope into
reality, Patrick.”
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