Monday, 21 September 2020

The Alcoholic

 

by Mari Phillips


vodka on the rocks

 

You knew it would come to this. I doubted it. I always thought I could control it; I could stop anytime; I was in charge. The therapist called me a functioning alcoholic, but I'm not functioning anymore, I’m exhausted. There I’ve said it and it doesn't look so good when it’s written down. Don’t worry, I'm not writing this through a haze of Sauvignon Blanc, Chardonnay or even vodka, though at the moment only a shot of something 40% would fix my shaky fingers, fuzzy brain and the pain. 

I could see the disappointment in your eyes when I forgot to collect Janey, missed her school events or came home late, wreaking of mouthwash and mints. Weekends wrecked. You always made excuses for me; said I was unwell, working overtime or away. I knew you removed my bottles, wherever I’d hidden them. But I couldn't cope when she ignored me, as if I didn't exist. It was worse than her anger. I didn’t know she was bullied because of me. I am so sorry and now I can’t tell her. The funeral was heartbreaking.

       I finally booked the rehab and by the time you read this I may be there but that depends on the police. I lied when I said I was at work on the 20th. The missing ‘hit and run’ driver is me.

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