OLD TIME MEDICATION
Christ, I need a drink. I know my liver is toast and drinking is a death sentence. I know all this. But I cannot think of an elixir that takes me down from the dark place and force-feeds me a few hours of calm. There is a vial of benzos in the cabinet. I try to stay away from the benzos. I don’t like the way they make me feel and the damn things eat away at your brain. I know, alcohol does too, and it ruins your body, it burns holes in your liver. I like it better than benzos when my brain heats up with screaming demons lighting braziers of combustible anxiety in the front room of the prefrontal cortex. Early on, I learned the only medication is alcohol. It is now frowned upon more than ever. I need a drink right now. I cannot have a drink right now or ever. I imposed that limitation on myself. I was in the self-destruction lane going a hundred and ten miles per hour. I was a speed demon rushing into a dense fog of confusion and apprehension. I think about the benzos. The doctor prescribed 30 tabs a month at a pathetic five milligrams per tablet. I need twice that to purge the demons for a few hours. Plus, the more I take, the higher the tolerance and the less effective it is, and the more addicted I become. So I sit here, thinking about that old time medication, and stopping myself from driving to the liquor store and filling up a wire basket with bottles.
