By now, it’s no secret I’m a lush; I openly admit to as much. What I haven’t been as forthcoming about is I have diagnosed high-functioning depression, meaning even though I don’t have any reason to be depressed, because of the way mind works, I just inherently am. That I’m depressed for no reason is in itself is depressing, and I’ve been prescribed a jumble of medications for it, but they all essentially turned me into a lethargic zombie and impaired my mental faculties, so I stopped taking them. That’s when I learned booze is a great way to dumb myself down to the point where I can briefly stop thinking at such a frenetic rate. My brain thanks me for it, whereas the rest of my internal organs are about to quit a bitch.
The odds are stacked against me, because I’m genetically biased towards addiction. Everyone on my father’s side of the family are and have been heavy drinkers, sometimes to the point of full-blown alcoholism. I essentially disowned my father’s side of the family a long time ago, but their genetic impression is still felt. Still, it could be worse: at least no one in my family has had a propensity when it comes to drugs. I’ll definitely take an alcohol habit over a heroin dependency.
Above all, though, alcohol helps to curb my anxiety. I get anxious about things as ridiculous as an incorrectly folded shirts. I guess the bottom line is that I’m not so much an alcoholic as I am a binge drinker. I can go for days without drinking and don’t crave alcohol, and sometimes even find the prospect of drinking repulsive, but once I do drink, it’s balls to the wall. I guess I can at least derive a modicum of pride in that I’m rarely a sloppy drunk.