I have friends who have been classed as alcoholics from time to time by other friends.
As a habitual drinker I always somewhat dismissed these claims, since I know these people do not feel the absolute need for drink on a constant basis. They may have a ‘drinking problem’ but they’re probably not physically addicted to the substance in the way I have been – between habitually drinking and regularly binging.

First friend is Jewel.
Jewel is a binge drinker. She will deny sleep and continue drinking for stretches of 30 hours. Her problem is that she can’t stop once she starts and as her inebriation continues her self restraint falls away. She gets obnoxious, selfish and belligerent. She decides the music and the volume (almost always as loud as it can go) and she demands full attention and centre stage.
She can also get messy and destructive in this mode and unfortunately for her, this has lead to many of our friends simply dropping her.

Conversely, sober, Jewel is indeed a jewel. An absolute pleasure to have as a friend. She can spend weeks sober and just fine without any need for the substance.
However, a ‘couple of social drinks’ is not on her radar. She will almost always demand more and more drink, to the point that she has caused an uproar upon invitation back to someone’s place after-hours if drink is not made available to her.
Also, her binge drinking is not necessarily for ‘fun’. It’s clear she is escaping the reality of some issues she can’t deal with. Alcohol affords her confidence and escapism.

Secondly is the barfly.
K-James is a typical barfly. Of course he enjoys drinking, but for him it is a byproduct of the social atmosphere of the bar scene.
He is a people-person and although on the surface his drinking is habitual it has less to do with alcohol than people suppose.
Granted, he may, under the influence, make some flawed decisions, for instance inviting girls he just met home which adversely affects his home life and that of his house mates, and aside from financial concerns that is the extent of his ‘problem’.

Example: K-James had run out of cash. I had one note myself. We sat in playing video games and drinking tea, but, as a habitual drinker I felt the need for drink.
I had enough for eight cheap cans we could share to see the evening out.
I took a trip to the shop, and arriving back with my ‘surprise’ I could tell K-James resented it. In fact I think he may only have accepted one of the beers that night before switching back to tea.
He would have preferred we take my last bit of cash to the bar and nurse one drink each for a couple of hours.

All the same, regular drinking, whether you class it as habitual or social will lead to a certain dependence on the substance.

As a habitual drinker, I am the closest of the three of us to actual alcoholism. Opposite to K-James, I forgo the expense of social drinking and drink on the cheap, home alone. And different to Jewel (although I do binge from time to time) I would require drink every evening – so much so that I could go 10 nights of consecutive drinking and not one had in another’s company.
Among the more ‘proper alcoholic’ behaviours I’ve engaged in are: frequenting different shops on different nights of the week so that the attendants don’t know that I’d drink every night, buying beer and wine so that it seems as though I am buying for two and hiding my vast amount of empty bottles when guests come over.

I am one step from the bona fide alcoholic.
On the edge of ‘functioning’ this is the person with the stash in the toilet cistern and a bottle of vodka by the bed.
Day time beverages like tea or coffee will be ‘infused’ in secret, and all this is done merely to function on a level considered ‘normal’.
These drinks during the day are medicine to take an edge off and keep the shakes at bay.
My uncle got to this point and subsequently joined Alcoholics Anonymous. He’s been ‘clean and dry’ years now.

Finally there is the bum. The people I see in the streets around me (I live in the city) and dread I could one day become.
These are possibly homeless, impoverished and disheveled individuals who must keep drinking every conscious hour of the day.
They often purchase each drink singularly – the strongest cheapest stuff they can find, and roam with that can of cider until it’s finished. At the end of the day they may make a purchase of a few before alcohol tills close for the night, but I’m not even sure many of them get to that point.
Presumably drink is at the root of their poverty. They have hit rock bottom and have given up, figuring drink might make that rock feel a little less cold and hard.

Personally I feel it’s important to note these differences. Both in terms of oneself and pin pointing where on this slippery slope you might be and also in judging others.
It’s far too easy to call someone an alcoholic because they get rowdy and cause problems when drunk once a fortnight, or because they spend much of their time in a bar over a draught ot two.
Sure, they may have a problem with the substance, and are abusing it and they probably should be addressing it, but as a person who has downed a bottle of wine before meeting friends at a bar, just to feel ‘okay’, I take exception on their behalf.
A drink problem can easily lead to alcoholism, and all of this is a sensitive area, particularly when confronting a drinker about their habit and behaviour, but, even if doing so on one’s own, it’s important to recognise the actual nature and extent of the problem before addressing it

These were the main reasons to quit.
I wasn’t happy with the habitual nature of my drinking and how it had become a case of drinking for the sake of drinking and no other reason besides.

So I suffered withdrawal symptoms and took on a bunch of tasks I had otherwise been ignoring.

Things turned around. I felt fresh and sharp.
I looked forward to waking clear headed and in spite of insomnia even began to  await bedtime to try new techniques to try and get to sleep (I’ve found crosswords to be quite effective).
I also noticed a big increase in energy levels and motivation. I became excited about projects I had been letting slide.

Yesterday evening I properly craved a night of drinking.
Of course I didn’t want to slip back into my habit, and I probably wouldn’t have enjoyed the intoxication, and waking this morning, fuzzy headed and possibly pained I would have berated myself, however, waking this morning I no longer felt the excitement of sobriety as I had until now.

Like any state, as it becomes the norm, it loses its edge. It’s the same with drink or drugs.
There will be a period where things are different and interesting, but sooner or later one gets bored with it.

Unlike the initial decision to quit and withdrawal or insomnia, there are no ‘tricks’ now. Cleaning the house psychologically readied me for a change. The idea of taking on withdrawal like a battle as a means to beat it was a game and I won. There are no crosswords to fill that will keep a sober lifestyle from becoming more and more mundane.
It is now about conviction.

There is the option of engaging in a regular activity which precludes alcohol. To be honest, I hadn’t thought this far ahead.
And to be honest, in the back of my mind I am treating this as an experiment out of the norm, even if I say the whole idea is to make sobriety and appropriate drinking the norm.

I have one more ‘trick’ or goal – one more hurdle to face and that is two days from now when I take on a full night’s social drinking and aim to come out the other side a responsible drinker who will not begin habitually drinking again.

I will possibly need a ‘trick’ or two for next week, lest I allow room for my ‘Inner Alcoholic’ to tempt me.

Socialising here is strongly dominated by alcohol. Only people who aren’t into alcohol but nevertheless enjoy or don’t mind going out  with drinkers can get away with not drinking. And even then, they will often disappear early enough in the night.
Drinkers off the booze can rarely abide the company of people, even close friends, as they become intoxicated. I am no exception (with one exception… One yearly hard and heavy festivity saw me off drink. After an hour or two I somehow I managed to  transcend my sober state and feel an empathic ‘buzz’ with my buddies).

As a consequence of our alcohol-centric social culture, I know a few people who ‘take a break’ from booze. These include both habitual and binge drinkers. (‘Binge’ drinking is common here and considered the norm. I define binge drinking as a night of about 8 hours+, heavy social drinking, where any given drinker will drink up to and above twice the amount they would compared to a regular evening of ‘moderate’ drinking).
These people will swear off drink usually for the period of a month (or often for the forty days of Lent). It is a significant amount of time and certainly can’t be scoffed at. Their system will be cleared out and they’ll feel generally better about themselves.

My problem with this method is that at the end of the four weeks, the drinker is inclined to launch immediately back into their usual habits. Undoubtedly, the dry period will typically culminate in a celebratory night out (a binge session), and the habitual drinker will clap himself on the back and allow again, a number of drinks to be consumed each evening thereafter.

I’m all too aware of the niggling tendency towards such behaviour in the back of my own mind right now. On Friday (the end of my ten days) I am having visitors. We will go out. We will drink, probably until drunk, return to one or two last beers here. Next day I will probably be suffering a hangover and I’m sure my visitors, and myself included, will be inclined to go for a ‘cure’ the next day.
I can only hope for the strength to allow this be what it is and shift back into the ‘dry’ routine I am currently promoting for myself. I am constantly warning myself of this.

I now must confess.
I drank yesterday.

I refused my friends on Friday night, all the while, aware that there was a small family dinner scheduled for Sunday. Usually I will have a few drinks at such a gathering. I debated about this. Initially I figured under no circumstances would I partake, but then realised that this was counter productive to my aim.

I am not quitting for ten days so that I can reward myself with a ‘bender’ which will then lead to a perfect excuse to fall back into a habitual pattern.
The whole idea of this exercise is to 1) Withdraw physically from alcohol 2) Break my habit and almost most importantly 3) Promote a more acceptable, ‘healthy’ discipline regarding my alcohol consumption.
It does me no favours to ‘teetotal’ for x amount of time and fall right back into my old ways.

Double checking that my ‘Inner Alcoholic’ was not influencing me (more about ‘that guy’ in time), I decided to accept the few drinks at dinner and refuse myself further drinks afterwards.

I had three glasses of beer and two and half glasses of wine.
One excuse I’ve used in the past is “you can’t stop at three”. This idea that once three drinks are consumed you just can’t help but have another…and another… until bedtime. Which, of course, is total rubbish (one of the many constructs of that little demon the ‘Inner Alcoholic’).

It should not be difficult to enjoy the dinner and return home for a night without any further drink. And when that was achieved, I could be content I could break my habit etc. (as proven), and also that I can partake in a few social drinks and not ‘need’ more.

Aside from a very vague temptation to stop into a bar for a tasty draught on the way home, this was surprisingly easy to do.
Also, I noted that when the first drink was offered and tasted, there was no major significance dealt to it.
It was not The First Drink I’ve Had in Over Five Days. It was not the first drink of the day, something that first beer at my Dad’s house would have been before… and I’d have glugged it down.
It was just a glass of beer.
A beverage to sip while catching up on recent events.

I enjoyed the second a little more.
The two glasses of white wine went just fine with dinner.
After dessert I tasted the red – quite delicious, and after a while, went back for a second taste (the half glass I mentioned above).

Tea was offered but all declined, so rather than cause bother, I also declined. My father opened a second bottle of white. I refused a glass but decided I would enjoy a beer with my after-dinner cigarette.
And it tasted very good, especially with that smoke. Very good indeed.
And that was all. In retrospect, it was certainly enough.

…and I’m glad for it. I allowed the ‘few drinks’, I enjoyed them for what they were.
…because usually those few drinks at my dad’s house are barely enjoyed. They are a cure from the previous night’s drinking. They are a way to ‘disguise’ the stink of booze off me. They then mean more. They mean worrying about getting out on time to make a purchase of beers on the way home.

The experience showed I can actually partake in alcohol for recreation alone, which hopefully will bleed through and bolster me at the weekend.

The next morning I decided to clean my place. Thoroughly.
I realised that to turn myself around psychologically I would need to make a concerted effort and some changes. Cleaning my physical environment would help on so many levels. I would feel achievement, I would feel a cathartic ‘cleaning out’ of the self and I would have a pleasant atmosphere in which to face getting ‘clean’ myself.

By the time I was scrubbing at the windows, my hair was dripping sweat.

It helped it was such a pleasant day out and Nina Simones ‘Feeling Good’ sprung to mind more than once.

I also took a stroll to the bottle bank in the peach and pink tinted sunset. It was a relief to have a whole third less bottles than usual to haul over there.

In the evening, with no food in the house, I decided on a take-out burger and chips. This meal usually induces a craving for a decent mug of tea (although in the past that craving would be swept aside for wine or beer), so it was ideal as opposed to an Indian or a Turkish kebab – meals which are unwaveringly accompanied by beer. Even Chinese food calls for wine to me.

From previous experiences, I knew that bedtime would be difficult.
The evening before, I’d had about half the usual amount of alcohol. I lay on the sofa and used The Matrix to lull me to sleep. When I woke to the looping dvd menu I staggered to bed and managed to sleep through.
Having showered and changed the bedclothes, I decided, this evening, to try for bed at about 2am.

It took a long time to relax. First of all, I was all too aware of stimuli. Without numbing alcohol, any tiny noise would cause me to become alert.
On top of this my stomach was rumbling continually. Even if I could ‘relieve’ some, or much of the gas, my stomach would continue rumbling and creating more. (I’m sure the burger didn’t actually help in that sense).

Over an hour later, my mind and body had relaxed enough for ‘what-should-be-sleep’ to begin to take hold.
However, it felt as though my mind was wandering into pre-sleep nonsense and dream-like thought too soon for itself.
Lines of faces drifted before me and a barely audible monologue began to recite.
As the line progressed the faces, none of which I’d ever seen before, became more and more vivid and more and more grotesque.
It felt as though I were drifting into dreaming too soon for the amount of consciousness I was actually experiencing.
And of course, when the faces became unbearable, I would have to rouse myself and start over.

At that point I knew I would probably not be able to fall asleep during the dead of night, but I continued to urge my body and mind to rest fully.

I did drift off for a few seconds. Outside my door a tone sounded like a horn. I still don’t know if it was actually the fire alarm going off for a split second or an auditory hallucination. But to my mind it was a definite loud noise right outside the door.

Knowing I was definitely too freaked to try for sleep again, I was nevertheless too freaked to get up and go out there.
I switched on my bedside lamp and stared for a while. At 5am, with the world outside waking, I was finally okay to fall asleep.

My dreams were like those one has after doing a menial task for a few days. Repetitive, game like. I was trying to slot blocks into specific places and then trying it again and again. I woke at noon feeling quite frustrated.

The following day consisted of shopping and errands. I bought a new shower curtain and thoroughly cleaned the bathroom – another psychological trick which kept me occupied and also sorted a long overdue chore.

My stomach was worse again. My dry heaves were gone, but I would gag from coughing or burping at times.

This night I ate a frozen ‘roast pork’ meal with milk. One hour before shops close for alcohol sales I got an extremely intense craving. I pushed it aside and was relieved to note the clock when the time came that the temptation was no longer an option (of course I could have gone to a bar, but luckily the craving had subsided completely by then – another psychological artifice).

I researched sleeping disorders and came across the phenomenon of ‘rebound REM’.
REM  is a vital part of the sleep cycle. If a person, regardless of the hours they sleep, does not obtain enough REM sleep for whatever reason, that REM time is ‘owed’, and at the next available opportunity it is ‘repaid’ and the person has more REM sleep than usual. This is known as Rebound REM.
REM should kick in about an hour into a person falling asleep. However, in intoxicated sleep, this does not happen. One remains in a deep sleep state, more or less until the substance wears off.
When an alcoholic begins withdrawal there is much REM sleep to be caught up on.

I believe this to have been the cause behind the sensation of me experiencing a dreamlike state before even falling asleep proper.

So this night, I pulled out my sofa bed and lay watching television until tiredness properly announced itself.
At about 1.30 am I chose a dvd to fall asleep to in the hope that I could drift into sleep with an external stimuli distracting me from Rebound REM. Unfortunately I chose “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” and was too engrossed in its brilliance to drift at all!
I then put on a soothing album. I did drift somewhat, but, again my stomach was churning and I was still not asleep by the end of it. However, I eventually drifted for a few minutes, woke, and dragged myself to bed. Again, 5am (past the ‘witching hour’).

The following day, Thursday, I got some antacids for my stomach and also took charcoal, both of which helped.
Still sweating somewhat abnormally, I did feel ‘cleaner’ and definitely sharper in the mind and my ‘shakes’ were all but gone.
I ate normally and attempted sleep at 2am.

To no avail. Rebound REM was not so much of a problem. A previous condition returned, a tickling inside my arm and leg muscles. Upon research, I discover it is known as ‘Restless Leg Syndrome’ and, yes, alcohol can be a factor.

In my research I have also read that insomnia can be a significant cause for relapse in alcoholics. This did not surprise me as I lay there, exhausted but unable to sleep.

I got up and sat at the computer until 5am. I was eventually asleep by six.

Yesterday, Friday, was much the same, except that night there was a party nearby to keep me awake until 6am.
It’s difficult to tell if I could have fallen asleep sooner had there been more calm, but again the ‘tickling muscles’ was an issue, even after the party died down.

The point of this withdrawal is to break my own habit and dependence in the hope that I can join others periodically for a few enjoyable drinks (and maybe a party every once in a while), even have a few at home alone once in a while, without falling back into the old habitual pattern and the need for drink to achieve basics such as sleep or even just ‘feeling normal’…

…so it was  also a shame, last night, having to decline friends for a social drink.

Much as I would recognise the cravings I would deny the necessity to drink as I took a walk, sometimes shamefully, to get the night’s booze in. On that walk I would tell myself that although I wasn’t especially in the mood to drink, I might be later so I’d better get the drink in, and it’s not like I needed it, I could go without and probably would tomorrow… or next week. (Of course I would open a bottle within ten minutes of getting home).

About a year ago I found an article about Alcoholics Anonymous. Admittedly I have never been to a meeting, but I’ve always felt AA was on the cultish side . This article was of a similar vein. More so. It spouted some figures from studies which claimed that the success rate is higher in drinkers who simply get sick of being sick and decide to give up of their own accord than alco’s who go through the ‘steps’.

During my years of habitual drinking I have suffered excess stomach acid and all that goes with it. Of course, I’ve had my hangovers and ‘horrors’ too. All of these symptoms were more or less controllable – antacids, pills… more alcohol, but lately symptoms intensified.

An insistent gag reflex in the first hours on getting up developed into dry heaves. It became so I couldn’t repress this and had to wretch for a few minutes before being able to function. My head began to feel odd. I can’t describe this well, but it was soft and floaty, out of synch. I would usually only get hangovers after binging, but now I was getting one every morning, in the same exact spot – this fact was worrying to me. The amount I would sweat, even without exercising, was increasing very noticeably.

I was becoming somewhat socially unsure. Not necessarily awkward, but carrying conversations could be difficult. My vocabulary would escape me or I might overly emote. Not to mention I myself was becoming aware of a constant odour of booze about my person (having bathed or not).

Such symptoms had definite and strong influence in my wish to break the habit, but mostly it was the sense of ‘what the fuck am I doing in life aside from drinking?’… and drinking for the sake of it, at that.

I’ve been out of work. This affords as much sleep as I desired. Upwards of 12 hours a day. Sometimes 16.
I’d start drinking as late as possible – around 9PM, finish the booze, then sleep. If it was just beer (say 10 or 12 beers) I could be up until 5am. On wine or whiskey combined with beer I would be drunk between 2 and 4am. I’d while away these hours unproductively between the Internet and the tv or a gaming console, and as time went by less and less time was spent in front of the computer – too much effort. Regardless of bed time I would usually get up after 3.30pm.
In itself this type of pattern encourages lethargy. In a steady decline, less and less of anything requiring effort was getting done, down to basic house chores, personal hygiene and even eating.

So I was drinking, sleeping, and doing the bare minimum in the few hours in between.
I almost gave kudos to myself for not taking my first drink until night time, but I realised this was even worse – a major indicator that this was more than just a ‘regular habit’ – this was sure as clockwork. Not far off a junky’s daily routine. And I was sure that the various shop attendants were noting my arrival consistently within an hour of closing time for the nightly ‘fix’.

When I was working a paid job, or actively engaging in projects or a relationship, I would thoroughly enjoy every hour of drinking. It was a fun relief and a release and I often ‘worked out’ personal problems in this time.
On Monday night last I peered at my last of (only) six beers, poured ten minutes with a third gone, and I realised that what was in front of me was the only ‘problem’ I needed to work out. It was pointless and absurd to use this substance any longer.

It was making me physically unwell and messing me up psychologically and socially, but most of all, there was nothing else in my life I was bothering with anymore. My alcohol problem was to blame for that and alcohol sure as fuck couldn’t help me deal with my alcohol problem.

I almost kept drinking that beer, scoffing at the idea of pouring out a drink being merely symbolic and I do hate to waste anything.
But I caught myself and acknowledged the symbolism alone as something very important. I poured the beer down the kitchen sink and I sighed.

I decided to take on the withdrawal. I would get the alcohol out of my system and endeavour to break the habit. I aimed for ten days at least. I could and would seek medical advice if unable to face symptoms of withdrawal.
I breathed deep once more and resolved to face withdrawal.

(Aside from one*,) the longest stretch in the last six years was possibly 3 or 4 days – and that would have been when I was with a significant other. It’s far easier to break habitual drinking when there’s someone around to distract, especially when sex is involved.
Still sweat like a motherfucker during the night though.

A usual night’s ‘home alone’ drinking would consist of between 8 and 15 drinks.
8-12 beers or a bottle of wine and 4 or more beers, or whiskey and beer, generally.
It would start within an hour or two of off sales (being able to buy drink to take home) shutting – the later the better.

Considering the body takes an hour per drink to adequately process the alcohol should mean only the habit has to be broken.

Except for ‘party drinking’ and ‘ramping off’.

20 hours heavy drinking with friends results in some heavy withdrawal the following ‘sober night’.
So, taper off the next evening – at least the ‘usual amount’ sipped constantly, going down like medicine, while shivering in front of the tv. The idea is to get to bed early and drunk enough to a) get to sleep without any ‘horrors’ and b) sleep through the night.

Of course, alcohol is still streaming through the system next day, fear of nasty withdrawal is still prominent, and perhaps with the intention of breaking the habit, a lesser amount is drunk the following night.

Fact is, the habit is merely extended and allowed to be and maybe the lesser amount isn’t felt to be enough by bedtime.
So, with no other booze in the house, a large glug of mouthwash is swallowed before bed.

Next day, habit has been fully reinstated, not to mention how the binging hours of alcohol consumption have been added in the system to previous binges also unprocessed.

Habit becomes dependence.

*Postscript

I believe my longest dry spell in the last few years has been when I started this blog. That was ten days at the end of August 2008. The idea was that recounting old drinking stories would aid me and I believe it did.
That run of stories (though I had many more for the telling waiting in the wings) ended with the account of a binge aftermath at the time – a binge from which I no doubt ramped down and got habitual again, as confirmed by the most recent post (February 2009) which was posted under the influence – an earnest wish to quit the habit.
Again I am seeking to break the habit, but not necessarily the substance. I aim for ten days (coincidence? I’d decided that figure before checking this blog) and feel I may as well chronicle the experience here, if not specifically to help me through it, then at least, to express it to and for others.

I’ve had a couple of weeks of no rules. Just “let’s not drink” – on weekdays. Besides practically forcing myself to drink alone at weekends, it has worked. (I’m drunk now by the way – it’s Thursday).

The post about Jewel was me back on the booze. It was present – at the time. This is present, now (… on the booze).

I met my uncle he’s reformed or recovering or whatever it is. I think of him now. I purposely met him in a coffee shop. I’m generally not drinking mid week and it’s working well. He brought up the subject. Part of the conversation was that he’d felt himself ‘a drinker’ part of it was how creative stuff comes from drinking.

I can’t deny either. Except to say I’m a creative type. Very. I’ve done good on my nights off lately – creatively.

I’ve done fuck all here (drinkonce….com …) since quitting quitting (it was all of eleven days completely off the booze – which included a night of being drunk!) but I read over it now and it reads good. Fucking good for the most part.

I have many more drunken stories and I’d like to get to them. I’d like to get to them sober. This could be a testament to that or it could be a bunch of decent stories told well. (The fact that they’re told sober is the only testament, but let it stand!)

For the moment I’m like this. Kind of drunk. Just now. I don’t mind just now. In fact I like it. But, fuck, I actually dig being sober for the majority of my time a lot more. For the moment at least (and I say that, in the moment… drunk!… but…).

We’ll see.

I would like to see…

What’s Wrong With Jewel, is the point.
And ‘What’s Wrong With Me’, is sidestepped as I step out of bed and grab a bottle of beer – the first of the bottles that has been sitting on the bedside locker for six hours. And I sip and contemplate, and smoke, out the window.
Hands is down there. Not too long before he asks me to go talk to Jewel. I know I love her, but I know what happened.
She claims she doesn’t know what happened.
I slug on a beer.
How come, I reckon, to myself, how come I can drink like fuck and not cause a frickin’ scene? I think it’s because I’m an alcoholic. I love the drug, not the buzz. I like to drink and Jewel likes to buzz. Trouble for her is, is that, she drinks for the buzz (I drink for the drink) and thus, the drink encompasses the buzz, and she becomes drunker than her buzz will allow. I don’t actually like being drunk, so I recede with it. She takes the buzz and holds on to it. She refuses sleep for it. And sooner, but usually later – thirty hours on, she’s drunker than her ‘buzz’ will allow. But in her buzz, with her… buzz, she will try to defy that. But use it. And defiance is her name.

And defiance is the name in the face of even people who just want to be pleasantly drunk… people I’ve invited her out to meet… pleasant, mellow people who don’t need this screaming banshee, defiant in the face of all logic and sensibility in her face, in our face, in the face of the staff.

And how aware am I of my ‘drinking problem’? I’ve got to have a beer in my hand as I get out of bed.
But how unaware is Jewel? Completely and totally, she’s got no recollection, and I know at the time she had no control. No awareness. None.

It’s an issue, since, even I could drink as heavy as her but hold it together. Heavier in fact. And the rest were drunk too. But when she let off screaming at staff and telling the rest of us it wasn’t our business or whatever it was – and glasses smashing on to the floor and refusing bed and frowning on those that needed it; even though it was a small gathering the night before; you’ve got to worry.

I sort of worry more for me. In a way, I worry more for me.
At least she can face a demon or two – her own demons.

I’ve got to face a substance. It’s something I love dearly, like a friend.
It’s something that has trouble associated with it, but has only been kind to me (other than my wallet), but ultimately will cast me beyond help and love…

we’ll see.

It was where a ‘being’ called Z ruled the downstairs, never sitting, but was always stood tall and proud in trenchcoat and black contacts, his peroxide mane fixed and streaming over his otherwise shaven head.
Beyond where, outside, the most respect he could command would be a gob of spit on his back, here, one was honoured if he nodded in your direction.

It was where any manner of guy or girl could be like any manner of girl or guy – all made up to various extents of androgyny, masculinity, femininity, other, all in between and besides.

I wore make-up. I wasn’t a goth. I wasn’t a rocker. But I liked The Cure and I liked Metallica. And I would bound, mid conversation, from the beer garden upon hearing the bongo intro to Been Caught Stealing twelve inch by Jane’s Addiction. I would freak.

I would thump all over the dance floor – all limbs flying, far and wide. I’d twirl and leap on the beat. I’d throw the left leg and right arm out and if you were in my way, sorry man, but you should fuckin’ know better – that was my signature tune.

‘dolph’s was Tommy the Cat, and he’d do much the same but more subtle, more suave, even if it came on early from the jukebox when the dancefloor was clear.

Sí would snake sexy and seductively, sleeves held over her palms, to Lovecats. She’d share knwoing glances with me from the corners of her lovecat eyes.
The two of us fucked with Misirlou like a pair of shithot tango dancers.

Lyres was the place dreams were made, made true and broken. It was freakish like a nightmare and blissful as the end of the rainbow.
They used to sell t-shirts; “I lost my virginity at Lyres.“

I’d get too drunk. I’d sit alone in the beer garden and stare. I’d just stare and ignore anyone who said anything to me. Because I was torn up inside and misunderstood and fucked up – even more than these people. More than the freaks. More than the goths. I’d never fit in. Alien.
Then I’d hear those bongos and race off. I’d return four minutes later, gasping for breath and guzzling on water, smiling all over the place and sit and light a cigarette.
And I’d stare out at the freaks and the punks and the goths and the rockers and at my friends and thank fuck for Lyres.

(Two bottles of beer later, and the guy who’d been taking out his ‘rage’ as a ‘rat in a cage’ on the dancefloor, is now Jim Morrison, swaggering across the ‘floor to L.A. Woman blasting out cool as fuck over the heads. He’d morph into Satan himself as the Stones’ Sympathy… faded in.)

Belly full of red wine and on the chug-chug-chug train to town. Chug-chug-chug in the stuffy carriage. Slosh-slosh in the belly. Chug-chug-chug, and under three stops down the line I battle my way against the nausea and against my own wayard feet traversing the chug-chug movement of the floor, to the door.

I press the button when the train stops.

The doors open.
I happily drink lungfuls of air, constantly telling myself I’ll be alright. I’ll make it.

The doors close. I gulp and sit back against the partition, arse firmly planted on the floor.

The doors open.
The driver is standiing there demanding to know why the doors were opened. I tell him I just needed some air.
“Don’t you get sick on my train” he demands.
I vow a sacred promise to him and myself.
I will not get sick on this train.

The doors close.
Chug-chug-chug. And I think about my promise. Chug-chug-chug. And the carriage stuffs up again. Chug-chug-chug. And I think about my promise. Chug-and think about vomit. Chug-and-slosh-and throat constricting. Chug-chug-chug.
The train, barely perceptibly, begins to slow – an indication we’re coming to the next stop.
I raise myself and shuffle on my haunches to the door.
The train slows more and the nausea rises as the train slows more as the nausea rises and the train comes to a stop as the force of it is on the brink of overwhelming.

The doors open.
Ruby red liquid gushes from my throat with a trajectory of a good couple of feet. A trajectory which passengers on the platform narrowly, but skillfully avoid with excellent reaction time. A few utter a variety of concurrent tones of disgust.

I disembark and Sí accompanies me. I sit, with full intention of making it to town on the next train (which I do, and to Lyres too) I just need a few minutes in case I’m going to blow again.

We sit on the bench together as I breathe the night air deep and full, cool and refreshing, and we watch the doors close, and the train pull away.

Chug-chug-chug.