Self-medication

I have what is most likely an unhealthy relationship with alcohol.

I can go for weeks without a drink at home, drink appropriately when out to dinner, or at a work function, or a party.  But, when I am at home, and feeling off-kilter (yay, Depression!) I will go through my alcohol of choice to the point of plasterization (yes, I know it isn’t a word).

My alcohol of choice is gin…but not the cheapo stuff on the bottom shelf.  Bombay Sapphire, or Bluecoat, or Hendrick’s.  Ah, Hendrick’s, with its lovely botanicals and hints of cucumber and rose.

(O, Juniper’s essence, why must You torment me so?)

When I am most upset, I look to sipping from a glass packed with crushed ice.  Each fiery mouthful lies to me about taking away my pain and as I walk the razor’s edge for a moment, or five, it seems to be true.  Inevitably, though, I fall deeper and lose control once again.

I crave that fall, those torments.  I crave losing myself for a moment, or five.  I long for oblivion…but I have no gin in the house and I refuse to lose control in public.

I will not go to the state store.  I will not go.