My heart feels…wrong. My body is crying out to me to change my ways and yet I continue down a path of self-destruction. I drank again last night. Not much. Not as much as I used to have done. But this morning, after I got up and let the dogs out, while I drank a glass of water and put on some coffee, I felt it. My heart feels wrong.
Why does one such as I do something that hurts as it does?
My head feels…wrong. There is a weightiness about it. I don’t have a headache. I never do, but I can’t deny the feeling of a swirling cotton ball slowly moving inside my skull. This isn’t normal. Is this when the brain cells die or perhaps the aftermath, the funeral? My brain is mourning the loss of itself.
My throat and lungs feel…wrong. I woke up with a thirst. No. I woke up with a sweat. A sweat born of my body purging itself of poison. It is sending me a message. Hundreds of messages. It is screaming the only way it knows how telling me to slow down or stop or else.
But, I don’t want to stop. If I stop how else will I feel?
I used to enjoy drinking, but my body has had enough and has grown intolerant to it letting me know in 20 different ways after I drink too much or when I should stop. But, I don’t listen.
When did I become so weak? When did I become a slave to a poison?
Give it a day, a couple of days, and I’ll feel better. Give it a week and I’ll feel great. And then I’ll drink. Why? The reasons are many. Feel happy, drink. Feel sad, drink. Feel mad, drink. Friend drinks, drink. It’s Friday, drink. Or perhaps there is only one reason. Feel, drink.
None of this makes sense to my swirling brain right now, but it doesn’t need too. This is a diary after all. The diary of a wannabe alcoholic whose body is in revolt.
