Drinking Himself Dry

×

Expand

Photo by axelbueckert - Getty Images

Alcoholism

Alcohol. Wisconsin is consistently at or near the top of per capita consumption nationally. This is equivalent to four to five gallons of pure alcohol per resident per year, and because not all of us drink, some individuals are consuming far more. Some drink responsibly, as we say, but those who don’t offer a cautionary tale. Consider a case in point.

Charlie stared across the rapidly shrinking mental distance between himself and the half-empty bottle of bourbon on his kitchen table. He dimly recalled my advice from our counseling session earlier that day.

“Take a long look at that bottle, Charlie,” he heard me say. “It looks a lot smaller than a big old salt like you, but it isn't.”

Beads of sweat peppered the man’s brow, dashing some brine into his quivering eyes. He could almost taste the bourbon.

“And when you pour that stuff down your throat, Charlie, you think you're drinking it, but really it's drinking you. Drinking you dry,” my disembodied voice went on.

Staring Down

Charlie squinted his eyes shut, wishing himself away from the dour, lonely kitchen of his three-room apartment. But when he looked out again, that bottle was still there, staring him down. There was little doubt who would blink first.

“And when it's finished drinking you,” my voice droned on, “it'll toss you in the garbage. That's where all the empties go, in the trash.”

“I'm already empty,” Charlie whispered to the room, reaching for the bottle.

Drunken Stupors

This man was an old, barnacled Merchant Marine veteran who'd spent 35 years sailing several of the planet's oceans and the Great Lakes. He'd left a few cracked skulls in the world's roughneck ports and sported some ugly scars of his own from skirmishes with barroom brawlers, breaking waves and cutthroat ladies of the evening. In his frequent drunken stupors, he'd fallen and kissed the pavement “goodnight” more than he had his three ex-wives.

“You're one tough mariner,” I told him. “But not as tough as that gully wash you keep dumping in your bilge every night.”

Charlie let out a full-bodied “Harrumph.” He didn’t much care for some college boy lecturing him about his affinity for booze. He wouldn’t even have seen me, or any therapist, unless compelled to by the court in conjunction with an assault charge.

“What's as scared as you've ever been?” I asked.

“Drunk or sober?” he laughed back, but then his demeanor grew somber.

“It was a December gale on Superior. It was blowing 50, the seas were running 25-feet or worse, and we popped a hatch midway up the cargo deck. I was selected to secure it,” he explained, his eyes fixated on something only he could see.

“Well, I secured it and then a rogue wave secured me. Picked me up, harness and all, and slammed me down on the leeward rail. If I hadn't pretzeled around a steel pipe, I'd have fed the fish that night.”

“And what's as scared as you've been drunk?”

“I don't get scared when I'm drunk,” he replied, smiling. “So, Mr. Shrink, am I an alcoholic?”

“You're a bug drowning in a drink,” I replied.

“I can lick this thing whenever I want,” he shot back.

“You wish. The bottle runs you, Charlie, you don't run it.”

Dead Arrogance

A common psychological feature of alcoholism, or most any drug addiction, is the errant notion, despite all evidence to the contrary, that one's individual will and resolve is stronger than the need to imbibe. This deadly arrogance must be relinquished if recovery is to ever occur.

“We'll see,” Charlie challenged me as he stormed out, obviously put off by my effort to psychologically corner him.

And we did see. I later learned Charlie kept emptying bottles, and they kept emptying him. A monster, icy wave couldn't wash the man overboard, but one small slosh of booze did. He ended up feeding the fish after all. 

As Cassio in Shakespeare’s Othello said of alcohol, “I would not put a thief in my mouth to steal my brains.”

With some, it steals far more than that.

For more, visit philipchard.com.