I have just spent the last ten minutes wandering around in the cold loading bay behind my building waiting for some kind hearted smoker to let me in or out. I went out to put newspapers in the recycling bin and it was with a shudder of bitter resignation that I heard the cold click of the emergency door behind me. I have been waiting all weekend for something like this to happen to me. You see, I deserve this. I deserve to be stuck wandering around tips mid-morning in the freezing cold with no coat, because I am a vile, despicable alcoholic.
Dodging quickly through an open gate as a delivery van reversed in, I slunk back to the front of my building, ignoring the odd glances from passers-by at my coatless state. As I trudged wearily past the drunks and junkies on the dubious corner of Marlborough Place, I considered grimly my lot. I am poor. Broke, would be more correct actually. I am tired. I look a state. And I am constantly guilty. All these are symptoms of my one fatal flaw [one?!]:the demon drink. Being tired and looking a state are easily understandable physical side-effects; being broke is the unfortunate financial consequence of drinking to excess. Continuous, crushing guilt and shame is my own unique addition to this fearsome condition, and unhappily, the most adherent of alcohol-related side-effects.
Guilt is the sick feeling the morning after, which you know probably isn't a hangover, when you first encounter your mother as you stumble down the stairs. The steely look in her eye says it all; the only question is which misdemeanor is she pissed off about? The noise you made coming in at all hours last night? The state you left her kitchen in making yourself a late-night snack? The leaves you picked off trees on your way home and left strewn across the hallway with your shoes, handbag and a small fortune in copper coins? A veritable mystery, I think we can agree.
Shame comes later, with the enquiring text messages and phone calls mid-morning. Did you make it home last night? Do you remember what you said to so-and-so? Do you recall demonstrating your Beyonce-esque grind in the middle of the bar? No?! How much did you have to drink?! And so on. Shame lingers rather longer, mainly as your mother can be left behind at home when you head back up to Dublin, but the vague cloudy memories of your behavior, sadly, cannot.
I confess that I probably encourage such behaviour. After all, what would you talk to people about if you didn't behave badly on weekends and regret it bitterly for the rest of the week? Actually, guilt and a misguided sense of obligation is just about all that gets me up in the morning. That and Aoife banging noisily round the room. This, I conclude, is a very negative way to live. I need a new, more positive central core to my life. I plan on heading to Eason's on my lunch and swotting up in the self-help section. I may adopt a mantra. Please join me later, when I will have worked out my new plan later which I will gladly share with all. My love is your love, and so on.
Either that or I will just retire to a bar and get sloshed. Tricky one, that.
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