The Drinking Game

Good evening dear readers. Once again, I delve into the written word to exfoliate some minor fears that have begun to creep into one's life. This blog, it's pages and pages of troubles and woes, of celebration and torment, receives another episode.

These fears aren't huge. Everything in my life at the moment is as good as I can expect. The job is good, although the Monday morning alarm usually tends to disagree and the cricket season is going well, despite not playing all that much personally. I've also just heard our team lost by the narrowest of margins which is a bit of a kick in the teeth. Despite this though, we sit pretty on top of both league tables. But you're not here to read about cricket are you?

Jack was a friend that I thought I had discarded roughly 9 months ago, off the back of a rather extreme, eye-opening ten days in an environment far, far away from the everyday world I live in now. Jack had provided me with nights of pleasure and nights of pain and mornings of feeling sick and dizzy, but he became a problem. I drank so much of Jack that he made my mind crack. So I gave him up.

Except, I thought I did. At first he was absent, the soft drinks taking precedence. However, the weeks seemed to merge into seven long days of work and boredom, the rush of the drunk feeling sorely missed. So, I decided to take a step back and reward myself with drinks on special occasions. The London Eurovision Party. My birthday. Two such occasions I used this rule, without drinking at all in between, seemed like the safest way to still enjoy and look forward to these nights, but without damaging this brain of mine. Recently though, we're drifting back into old habits. Friday nights of random drunkenness, with no reason to actually celebrate, but drinking just because it's available to do so. I've refrained from going out on Saturday nights after the Friday nights, like old times, but I do feel this pattern is heading in one direction, and one direction only. How the fuck do I stop it?

If you'll take the time to step back into the archives, you will see stories that are the result of my excessive binge drinking. Some of them are magical, yet some of them have to be read to be believed. The good stories are only matched by the horror of the moments my head caved in. Now my parents have moved to the south coast, they are no longer here as a physical safety net. They've moved away because they now believe that I can be trusted to not go there again, but if I'm being brutally honest with myself, I can never say that won't happen once more. These recent drinking episodes, of which there has been no reason attached, may be killing me. There is no way of knowing if I am giving my brain the break it deserves between each night, when I make the conscious decision to just do it. You may think why I'm even considering the risk, but I am still addicted to that lifestyle. I can't see the competition between a movie and a takeaway versus the potential of a night out. It's just me.

I am completely, 100% aware of what I'm doing. I'm taking a gamble. I am still finding it difficult to say no to a night out, although I did refuse more than a single JD last night. I suppose that shows I do have some will power, but after busy weeks at work, all I want to do is unwind and let loose. It is in my nature to do so. Without it, I'd feel like I would burn out. I'd feel sad.

Yet, as another working week looms large, I find myself in a predicament. I feel a little bit guilty that I'm pushing those boundaries again, when, if I was being sensible, I wouldn't even entertain the idea. Maybe that says a bit about who I am. A risk taker? A gambler? But who gambles with their own sanity? I'm not at the stage where I just want to get drunk every night of the week. I know I can't handle more than once per seven days, usually a Friday night, but how do I know if that's one Friday night too many? I could be sitting here right now, with my brain begging me to stop, and I wouldn't even know about it. That is the reality of the situation.

Yet when it comes to the next Friday, (incidentally my pay day), I will be walking home from work at 8pm, with an invitation to the pub on my doorstep. And just like the kid with the cookie jar, I might well say, "Just one more night won't hurt..."