The last drop
Exactly one year ago I had my last drink. It was the fourth or fifth glass of Jack Daniels on that evening. The cheapest label, of course. I downed it quickly as the bar was about to close and I had already lost awareness of my surroundings — not that I cared. As the thickness of the bourbon burned my oesophagus one more time, I paid my debts to the house, jumped on my motorcycle and accelerated, completely hammered, through the darkness of the small town where I lived. The next memory terrorizes me to this day and is quite possibly what made me never want to drink again.
I started with alcohol way too late. Son of an Evangelical Christian family, I grew up with a few convictions. Masturbation was bad, sex before marriage was an impossible dream, and drinking was wrong. If I failed big time on the first rule, the second and third were achieved in full glory. I’ve spent most of my youth and adulthood away from liquor and sex before marriages (it was only one). Sadly, in my thirties, if my brain is not too damaged to recall, the company of the forbidden beverages would start and grow to be way more ordinary than I’ve ever imagined.
Even as a devout Christian (which I am no longer in case you’re wondering), I was never told I shouldn’t drink. I just knew it was a bad thing, even though Jesus himself seemed to be quite a fan. And it was precisely because of the Lord’s appreciation for fermented grapes that, in really special occasions like Christmas and Easter, dad allowed everyone in the family one, maybe two glasses of the cheapest wine out there. I liked that. Having a few sips every year was enough to keep me happy and away from evil.
At the age of 28, two important things happened to me. First, I had a stomach bypass. Blessed with 1,65 m (5,4 ft) and 140 kg (308 lbs) I was a short blue whale eating my way out of a boring life. The surgery took about half of my weight away, helping me rediscover forgotten simple things, like tying my shoes or the looks of my dick. It was big. The discovery. Not the dick.
The second incident was my departure from the faith I held dear for so long. I wasn’t just the son of a preacher and an avid churchgoer. I was a fanatic apologist of the Christian faith. I used to preach at services, organize events for the young crowd, and defend with my life the beliefs I grew up with. That until interesting questions started to pop on the agitated mind of a cocooned skeptic, soon to come out with colorful atheist wings.
Before you ask, let me tell you the terrible relationship between those two episodes and my intoxicating downfall. Leaving the faith removed alcohol from the sin list. In fact, the sin list was gone entirely. The bypass made me a human sponge for any substance. Not drinking was supposed to be a religious dogma. But I never learned that. For some reason, I knew I was supposed to go easy on the booze, but never understood why. It turns out drinks would act on my system a lot quicker and stronger than in the guts of normal people.
With that, I slowly started to test the satanic waters. Beer, vodka, wine, whiskey. All labels, all prices. It wasn’t long until my appreciation for it turned into abuse. I found myself drunk once. Then again. And one more time until I couldn’t count anymore. I didn’t drink to have fun. I did it to get drunk. To forget my troubles, even though waking up with bigger ones was always certain.
As expected, when blasted I would end up doing all sorts of stupid things. I lost friends. Good ones. I lost my dignity time and again. I lost respect from the best people I knew. I hurt people I loved. I destroyed what I couldn’t have. I killed Love itself. And I did it over and over until that night when, after the fourth or fifth glass of Jack Daniels, the worst came.
For some bizarre reason, I was able to ride my motorcycle all the way home. But I didn’t make inside the garage. Instead, I looked at my gate and tilted like a fainting goat, falling slowly to the side with no damage to me or the bike, a 250 kg (556 lbs) Harley Davidson that rested gently over a good part of my body. And there I was, trapped in the middle of the night, reduced to a giant piece of drunk, demolished, disgraced meat.
I slept on the floor briefly until a pair of hands woke me up and raised me from hell. I opened my eyes and what I saw broke my heart into uncountable pieces. The most beautiful young boy. Half angel, half man. My son. Helping his drunk father out of the abyss.
It wasn’t the first time it happened. But right there and then I’ve decided it would be the last. I never had another drop of alcohol and today, one year later, I have no plans of going back. I am healthier, happier, a lot thinner, a better father, and hopefully a man with some basic dignity.
It never felt this good to have had enough.
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