I tend to gravitate toward sad songs, which is unfortunate since I suffer from chronic depression. A few tear-jerking ballads to start the day, great therapy. People tell me I bring this on myself, and perhaps it’s true. Do I wallow in self-induced misery? Maybe so. Since it’s what I know more than anything, this sadness, perhaps I seek it like a comforting blanket.
When I’m low and feeling blue I put on songs that only reinforce my loneliness. Not too bright really. Odd how the color blue is associated with sadness, like having the blues. Singing the blues. Doesn’t work with another color, try it yourself.
“My woman done me wrong, and I got a bad case of the greens.” See, it just doesn’t fit does it?
I’m rambling today, my mind fretting about yesterday, where a case of the blues led me to thinking about the bottle. That’s a bad train of thought for a reformed drunk. The idea of speeding up the day crept in from nowhere. I thought by numbing myself with a stiff drink, or two, the day would be easier. It was 11:00 am.
Second time in the past month that I’ve wanted a drink, or thought about it, which isn’t good at all. A passing thought of going home after running some errands, home to an empty house besides my two four-legged companions. Four legs, and one tail. Once home opening the cupboard where the wine and whiskey are kept, untouched for almost two decades.
Do I drink? I should clarify by saying alcohol, alcoholic drinks. Booze. You know what I mean. The answer is yes, but….
I always feel a need to further define it for people. Always add on the “but” part of the equation. Maybe I have to add this addendum to my answer as a means of reinforcement. Reinforcing what I feel is a major accomplishment in my life. The ability to take control over drinking, somehow. I had no control from day one.
Maybe when someone asks if I drink I should just say “I do, I just don’t get drunk anymore.”
My drinking got out of control, kept escalating to more and more booze, and more and more times of being passed-out blind drunk. Close to 4 decades, interrupted only by a court-ordered stay in re-hab. It was either try that route or sit in jail for 6 months, so yeah I voluntarily checked myself into the local facility for people in my same shoes. Drugs or drink, we were all living lies.
Until one miraculous day I stopped getting drunk. I was trying to fill the void in my soul , to numb myself from PTSD induced mental torment. Drinking to the point of passing out. Meaning I was lucky if I passed out. Unlucky? Unlucky was where I would blackout for an undetermined time, until I was either arrested or a friend hit me hard enough to knock me out. Both have happened.
When asked by doctors if I drink the conversation goes as follows:
“So Kyd, do you smoke?”
“Yes unfortunately, about a pack a day.”
“For how long?”
“Fifty years off and on.”
“You need to stop.” was the typical answer from the doc. “How about alcohol? Do you drink?”
“Maybe ten drinks or so.” I like saying that, just to see their reaction.
“A day?” You can hear the wheels turning. “A week?”
“No, that’s maybe 10 drinks a year total”. I don’t drink at home anymore but will have one if I’m out to dinner with the wife or a friend.”
“So no history of alcohol abuse?” the doctors add.
“To be honest, up until 2008 I had a real problem with alcohol. Back then it was 3 or 4 vodka martinis a night. But then every 3rd or 4th night it would be a full bottle and I’d get blind drunk.”
“I’m surprised that it didn’t kill you. When did you first have a problem?”
“The problem started the first night I had a drink. I was 14.” I reply. “So how long is that? 37 years, if my math is right.”
“Then you have something to be proud of.” Replies the doctor and moves on to the next set of questions.
It is something I’m proud of, too bad it took me so damn long. I know I hurt a lot of friends and family, emotionally, but I had no control over it. I never had a craving during the day, was never off work hungover. When the night came the gloves came off so to speak and it was time to do some serious drinking.
I attribute the reason from my drinking to several things. Primarily a symptom of PTSD I suppose. When I drank I could sleep without having the dreams and nightmares that I had been experiencing since I was 7. I was once told I was self-medicating, which I don’t believe at all. What I was doing was hoping it would kill me in my sleep. A poor way to commit suicide.
This thought of having a drink in the middle of the day concerns me. Especially since it’s based on a new reason. Like I said, in the past I drank to deal with being raped and PTSD. All the drinks in the world wouldn’t overcome the issues I had though. I needed serious treatment, but always found a reason not to go that route. After all, I didn’t have a problem did I?
Besides dealing with untreated PTSD, the whole issue of being Queer in a very not-Queer world added to the burden. Compounded my lack of self compassion and love.
Substance abuse is quite common with both PTSD and GD (gender dysphoria). One of just many symptoms, along with suicidal ideations, self hate ,having no self worth whatsoever. Falling prey to alcohol just made the hatred worse. My own actions would reinforce how bad a person I must truly be.
I had to stop drinking in order to deal with both those issues, and somehow finally realized that fact after decades of abuse. That realization came when I was going to pour my first drink for the night. Why did it sink in then? I will never know the answer to that one. From somewhere deep inside came the unarguable fact that enough was enough. I quit lying to myself.
It took another 12 years from when I stopped getting drunk to where I now feel the issues with both PTSD and being Queer have subsided enough for me to move on. Can I dare say neither are an issue? Not completely, but I’ve also come a long way in that regard, with both. For the most part anyway.
How did I quit hitting the bottle? I have no idea really. I certainly wasn’t planning on it, it wasn’t on a list of things to accomplish. At this point, in 2008 to exact, I figured I would be a drunk until the day I died.
My life from the early 90’s until 2008 was one of nightly drinking. I’d get home before the wife, let the dog out the back door, and pour my first vodka martini of the day. It wasn’t a martini really, just a handful of ice then poured vodka up to the rim.
I thought I was being clever with my drinking, and every time the glass got down a third I’d top it off again. I thought it might fool someone, the missus primarily, that I only had one drink. I wasn’t fooling anyone, especially myself, and especially not Mrs. Kyd.
Most nights it would be a couple of drinks, but still enough to get half lit. I’m guessing 6 or 8 ounces? Way too much, and I thought this was a good day, that I had it under control. Alcohol can make you believe anything, and you think you’re handling it, but just fooling yourself.
Every three or four nights it was non-stop drinking until I could just barely crawl up the stairs to bed. These nights we’d fight like hell, yelling and screaming at each other over everything. For a person that hates conflict and loud voices, it didn’t make any sense, but it was what it was. Maybe some of the arguments were warranted I thought at the time, but in looking back and being 100% honest, they weren’t. Excuses for more drinking was al, it could never be justified.
I don’t know who I thought I was fooling, trying to hide it. I even had 4 different liquor stores I’d go to in rotation, so it didn’t appear that I was buying a bottle every 3 days from the same place. If the store clerks only saw me every 2 weeks I must not be a problem drinker.
Then the day came, in August of 2008, where something inside me spoke up. Out of the blue (there’s that color again). I came home like every other day, opened the back door for the dog, and headed to the cabinet in the kitchen where the booze was kept. I was fully intending to pour my usual, and keep pouring.
I opened that cupboard, looked at the half empty bottle of Absolut and said out loud “this ain’t helping”. That was all it took. I had reached the point in my life where I finally admitted it. Full believed it. Knew for a fact that drinking was just making things worse.
I closed the cabinet door and that was that. It was finally over. Something inside of me took control in that moment, but don’t ask me why or how. I had just had enough and knew it. I was tired of fighting with myself, like I was the enemy. Nothing in my life was getting better, and in order to stand any chance at all I had to drop the alcohol.
“This ain’t helping.” Sounds easy, but it came after years of abuse that I knew all along was wrong. Another lie I was telling to myself. I had to put the bottle down and face life head on though. I knew then the only way I was going to life any further was to stop, turn around, and face facts.
That cupboard door has remained shut ever since, the half bottle sits there still. I never had withdrawal or desire to have a drink. No cravings at all. No DT’s or night sweats. I don’t drink in the house, it doesn’t come to mind. Until now.
It was when I was free from alcohol’s grip that I decided to face myself in the mirror and see what was really there. “To thine ownself be true.” I had to deal with the childhood rape and gender dysphoria head on, instead of this slow suicidal path that drinking made me believe I was doomed to follow forever.
I have done well in conquering my demons, until new ones have appeared to take their place. After 17 years the urge to drink hit me. It must have been a real urge yesterday or else I wouldn’t have bothered writing and rambling away here. Twice now, and it worries me to no end. I need to face this head on, see it for what it is. A problem I don’t need, and that’s all it would be. A major problem.
I’m not quite done working through my own issues, like I said and I’ve done so damn well to get to this point. I have to keep that mantra in my head, “I’ve done so well so far.”
.The reason for this sudden urge to drink isn’t very unique, but it’s new to me. Just plain loneliness. It comes at a time in my life where the constant and very real physical pain is getting to be too much. My health has me cut off from the world.
For someone who has done nothing but work for the past 47 years, retiring has been really tough. The most difficult part is having your social interactions reduced drastically. Completely in my case. I wasn’t ready to stop working to be truthful, but my body has other ideas.
Honestly though, I couldn’t keep working with my health the way it is, so retiring early was a blessing. But with that blessing comes the loss of people in your life, people you work with who have become family.
Now everyday I fight this loneliness. I have few friends and my family is miles away. I fill my day with dogs and doctor appointments. And music. Too many sad songs, my own damn fault.
I was listening to favorites while driving the other day, in a mood for country for some odd reason. “Blue” by LeeAnn Rimes. “If I Die Young” by The Band Perry. Keith Urban’s “Blue Ain’t Your Color” . Real cheerful stuff. This led to the John Prine song , “Knocking’ On You Screen Door”.
This particular song brought up memories of living in Kansas, small town life. My grandparents with their screen doors both front and back., the only time the main door closed and locked at bedtime.
Now I’m really lonely, missing people that I’ve loved and lost. Singing the blues.
I’m hit with the urge to open that cupboard door and pour a stiff drink. “This ain’t helping” plays once again in my mind, and I turn my thoughts elsewhere. No more music for now.