I’ve been drained of every last tear. My eyes ache and my chest feels tight, as if dehydrated like a raisin. But aside from that, I am hollow. The elation, the smiles, the optimism, is gone. I searched day and night for myself, and what made me up, but had no luck. If all that was lost was myself, it would be tolerable. But there’s more. Side affects, you might say.

Relationships were lost, between me and friends as well as family. The glue that bound us together dissolved into thin air. The cause was alcohol, and my newfound draw to the stuff. My infatuation (or addiction, you might say) began at 13, and progressed from there. The emptiness that came from my divorced, dysfunctional parents was smothered with the numbing vodka that kept my problems away. When the warm trickles down my throat I feel carefree, and momentarily happy. But where will momentarily get me? Not too far, I suppose. I want too much for myself to do this. I want too much to find myself to continue this.


Now, I can’t tell you not to drink, and I won’t. I won’t tell you about the health issues, or many reasons you shouldn’t drink. Because I’m me, and no one can make up your mind but you. I can hope, though, that you keep the outcome of my mistakes in mind.


“If only. Those must be the two saddest words in the world,” was said my Mercedes Lackey, a famous author. I agree, probably because they’ve flooded into my life and come back repeatedly, like waves in the ocean that keep knocking you down. I tried blaming my timing: “If only I wasn’t there last night, and I went to so-and-so’s house instead.” Then came others: “If only what’s-her-face hadn’t let me have so much to drink.” Finally came my parents: “If only the could’ve been like his/her parents, I wouldn’t need to drink.”

When I finally got it right, it was frightening: “If only I had been stronger.”