Poverty.
We think it’s a lack of money, but for me, it’s a lack of a discernible life. There was a time when I would sit on a pin and wouldn’t notice. Today, I sleep on a pile of mattresses 20 thick, and the pea feels like a cannonball.
I lost my virginity on a bathroom floor devoid of sensation. My most intimate relationship, and my mentor when it came to how to please a woman were the peas hiding under my father’s side of the mattress.
Later the computer became my guide.
...
Poverty.
We think it’s a lack of money, but for me, it’s a lack of a discernible life. There was a time when I would sit on a pin and wouldn’t notice. Today, I sleep on a pile of mattresses 20 thick, and the pea feels like a cannonball.
I lost my virginity on a bathroom floor devoid of sensation. My most intimate relationship, and my mentor when it came to how to please a woman were the peas hiding under my father’s side of the mattress.
Later the computer became my guide.
Pornographic pictures pummelling my palate like plutonium.
Thinking about my old life, I see the Narnian wardrobe. I feel schizophrenic, rambling on about a world that no longer exists. I remember flying high and writing “There’s No Place Like Home,” on the side of an H-bomb, and then cutting the rope.
Boom!
Burnt toast.
A lamb roast.
A head through a window, blood dripping on my bright white Nikes, a crazed grin caught in the shards.
A milk crate on top of a car; white blood spilling into the gutter.
What a nutter.
Naked in the middle of a lawn bowls competition.
Handstands.
A hand on the doorknob of temptation.
The twist.
The guilt.
The pain.
Showering the bartender.
Fighting the bartender.
Fighting the bouncer who is friends with the bartender.
The bucket.
Blue.
White paint.
Yellow bile tinged with blood.
Broken factory windows; skinless knuckles wrapped around the brick; a mother calling me a prick.
Zombified children are sitting on the settee playing Pokemon while parents get fucked up in another world. A woman is struggling to put shoes on a baby; a man shows her how it's done. A child lies in bed shouting to his parents because he wants to go ‘poo;’ the silent screams of two worms drowning in a home battered by sprinklers with nothing but blackbirds and the baking sun waiting to greet them.
A job you hate.
A strange woman, late.
Spots.
Blood clots.
Dots.
English, Welsh, Irish and the Scots.
The life of someone lost in the fog of alcoholism is a crazy thing. The things I used to do with my time bordered on the insane to the mundane - a life inert through ball and chain.
Enough.
Enough.
Enough pain.
Striver Brad asks, “What wonderful things can I do with my time without alcohol?”
And that’s what we talk about in today’s podcast.
The Truth About Alcohol
We Are Not Alcoholics, And we Refuse to be Anonymous
Join Us & Our Community
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