Too Much to Drink

This is one of a series of posts about a breakdown I had in 2010.

The story begins here.

The sorry contents of my fridge.

I start buying a bottle of vodka whenever I go to the local shop. A loaf of bread (to appear normal), some cans of Coke, and a bottle of vodka. I start with the smaller one, and then I just give in and buy the larger one; it's not like I need my money for buying food, after all. I make one cheese sandwich with the bread, which I hardly touch, and then the loaf sits on the side in the kitchen, going stale and then mouldy. Every morning I get up and drink a can of Coke. When my stomach starts to rumble, I might have another. More often than not though, I forget. Sometimes I eat Mini Baby Bel cheeses, because they're small enough to get into my stomach before it realises what I'm up to. I go weeks at a time without going further into the kitchen than the fridge. Not that there is much point in going to the fridge any way; these days its contents amount to cans of Coke, bottles of beer, a mouldy block of cheese, and the brownies I bake in order to fill my afternoons, then ice and give away because I can't actually eat them.

The evenings are when it gets really bad.If I'm sober, the evenings are hell. I can't settle, I can't concentrate. I go through book after book, my eyes following the lines across the page, all the way to the bottom. I turn the page and begin again, knowing that I have no idea what happened on the previous page. I have a stack of books next to the sofa which I appear to have read recently, but I have absolutely no recollection of what they were about or what happened in them. 

I go to the kitchen and turn on the hob. It heats up quickly, and I lay my wrist across it. That hurts. I must still be alive. I do it again, to make sure. And again. And then the other wrist. Sometimes I cut myself with the knives in the kitchen; they're no longer being used for food, after all. One day I'm so agitated I hold the point of a knife against my forearm and push. It pops through the first layer of skin and I panic and remove it. Chicken. If you don't want to live, why are you scared to cause a significant injury? Why these stupid little half-arsed attempts at burning and cutting? You can't even do that properly!

I keep going back to the doctor, and she keeps signing me off. She tells me I have clinical depression. She is clearly worried about me, and I feel really bad about that. I don't want to worry her; she's kind and seems very genuine. I think she has kids as well; she can do without worrying about me. 

By this point though, I am scared of going back to work. I associate work with panic attacks and worried looks and crying in the toilets. So I have to go back to the doctor to get a sick note to keep me out of the office. The doctor tells me I need to try not to burn myself too much. She asks if any of my cuts or burns need medical attention; I tell her no, they're only small superficial ones because I'm not that brave. She asks me about my drinking; I tell her I never used to drink at all (I used to go months without touching a drop) but now I'm drinking more. She asks, how much is more? I tell her a couple of beers here and there. Actually, most nights. And a little vodka. And sometimes during the day. Actually most days during the day. And sometimes in the mornings. And sometimes without any Coke.

She suggests I see an alcohol counsellor. I say no, I don't have a problem. She says I do. I tell her I intend to kill myself so it doesn't matter if I damage my liver. She asks me if I think about that a lot and I say yes. She asks if I have a plan. I do have a plan, and it's foolproof. I've been going over and over it in my head for weeks now. I can't tell anyone what it is though, in case they do something to try and stop me. I'm supersititous about this; if i tell anyone my plan then when it's time to use it I might fail because I've not managed to keep my big mouth shut. Someone might stop me. (Even now, three years later, I have never told a single person what the plan is.) I lie and tell her I intend to jump off Bournemouth pier. She tells me that is impractical; I would probably just break my legs. As if her saying that will somehow stop me from planing! I sneer at her in my head. She's fallen for my lie and won't press me for the truth. My secret plan is safe. I don't tell her the full extent of my obsessive planning; I don't want her to get me locked up somewhere I wouldn't be able to carry it out if I needed to.

She asks how I am getting on with the counselling sessions. I tell her they are pointless and I don't want to do them any more. The lady who does them is nice and everything, but she seems to be scared of me, and not able to help me in any way other than ensuring I do the washing up, or keep on top of the laundry. These seem like minor issues on the grand scale of things. Great, I'll have nice clean dishes, but I'll still want to smash them all on the floor and then roll about in the pieces. 

The doctor tells me she will refer me back to Psychiatric Services to see if I can have some "more in-depth" counselling. It turns out the poor lady from counselling has already done this any way though; at least she knows she's ineffectual when faced with the behemoth that is my depression these days. I feel bad for her; I hope having to deal with me hasn't made her think she can't help normal people with problems. I am just a lost cause; it's not her fault.

The doctor continues to mention the drinking every time I see her. The way I look at it, I'm using the booze to get me through a rough patch in the same way as I'm using the pills from the doctor, and who's to say one is any better a way of coping than the other? The drinking helps me to maintain the pretence of being a normal person, a non-mental.  I can have a laugh and a joke and talk rubbish with my friends, and am not totally preoccupied with the sort of thoughts people really don't want to hear about.

One day in particular, I look up and realise I have downed the better part of a bottle of Baileys before lunch time. I spend the rest of the day in a daze. It doesn't matter; it's not like I had to be anywhere any way. People tell me I shouldn't drink so much but it's not a real problem; I'm not getting obliterated every night and waking up in a pool of vomit in a strange man's bed or anything. There have only been a couple of times I've gone to the pub and not remembered getting home. I probably start drinking a little earlier than is really socially acceptable on a week day, but I don't drink particularly quickly or a lot, just enough to make things a little fuzzy around the edges and easier to deal with until bed time.

The doctor tells me the fact I fall asleep and then wake up seven or eight times during the night is probably down to the booze. I figure she's just scaremongering, and carry on. She tells me same thing the next week, and asks me again to see an alcohol counsellor. I tell her I'll cut down. 

That day is my first sober one in over 3 weeks. It is pure hell. It turns out the doctor is wrong; without the alcohol I don't even fall asleep in the first place. I tell the concerned masses (two people) that I will only carry on like this until I go back to work. Once I go back to work I will stop drinking. 

I laugh inside my head when they believe me; I have no intention of going back to work. I'll be dead before this week's sick note runs out.

At this point I feel it's important to stress again - this is not recent writing. I had a breakdown in 2010 and have been writing these pieces since then, about that time. I am not suicidal now; you do not need to worry. Promise.

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The story continues here