The Guidebook To Sobriety

Chapter 10

I got a riddle for you.

What rhymes with champ but makes you feel like the exact opposite of a winner?

Cramp.

And a cramp is exactly what jolted me out of my imperative sleep at 2 AM.

It didn't hurt like some leg cramp as a result of exercising or having your foot in an awkward position for too long; rather, the staggering pain running up my leg to my abdomen and trailing up my arm felt like someone was pulling on my nerves like guitar strings, causing an excruciating pain that left me writhing around the bed.

Eventually, I fell off my bed and just lay there, accepting my fate as the searing pain headed toward a crescendo. 

Five minutes later, I cracked open my eyes and judging by the artificial roof starting back at me, I was indeed alive. 

For better or worse.

I focused on the breathing exercise I had learned while doing pointless research; I guess it wasn't so pointless after all. I inhaled slowly and deeply, mentally counting to four as I sucked in as much air as possible. Next, I held my breath for the same four-count before exhaling to a - you guessed it - four-count. I continued the exercise until it felt like my heart wasn't vibrating like a jackhammer.

Of course, when I opened my eyes I realized a startling fact - I was face to face with my half-opened suitcase.

Dammit.

I sluggishly rolled over to face the door, taking a moment to steel myself through gritted teeth before struggling to my feet and making a mad scramble for the door. I was cold, yet sweating and my body threatened to crash as I wobbled to the door.

My mind drifted past the pain and misery, all the way to the suitcase and the relief within. Just a few pills would this foolery. The desired numbness would follow.

The desired silence.

I struggled with the door knob, my hand slapping against it futilely. The pain had eased when my thoughts wandered to the drugs, but it came back five-fold, demanding I give in and feed myself what my mind wanted.

No, what it needed.

If I died here what would be the point of any of this?

I stopped struggling to open the door and I took a deep breath, soaking in the fresh smell of air freshener and lost hope. I turned around back to the room and it was like if a magical spotlight had been cast on the suitcase, highlighting my target for me.

Who was I even fighting this for?

I took a shaky step forward, my breathing suddenly ragged and rushed as I started to pant. I imagine I sounded like a dog, panting in zeal anticipating my fulfilling meal, ignorant or rather indifferent about the consequences.

I just needed one more validating thought to push me over the edge and of course, my mind was more than ready to provide. A long life's overrated anyway, I thought.

I froze suddenly, the pain in my body no longer comparable to the storm that started to rage in my head.

"A long life's overrated anyway," A man said, laughing at my worried look as he produced his fifth bottle of Whiskey for the day and the clock hadn't even struck 12 yet.

"But what about us?" I asked, looking up at the man. He was short for a man, standing at about 5'10 but at the time he still towered above me. "Mom said you're not allowed to drink that anymore or you'll have to leave..."

The bottle paused en route to the man's mouth and he brought it back down to look at me, really look at me this time. He had this fidgety way of looking at you like he couldn't focus on one thing for a long period of time, but now he seemed to be trying really hard to focus.