Fuckin' Fiction

It’s odd, that when you are at your most vulnerable, the thing that you want. Maybe you want someone to defend you. Maybe you want someone to be with you, to share in the experience of not knowing what is going on. That is not what I wanted at all. I didn’t want a strong woman to be with me. To help me. To defend me. To seek out care for me.

I wanted a girl I had some time ago. The one that had made me feel strong. Made me feel like the protector. It didn’t matter that I was the one that was suffering. I felt that I needed someone to protect. To take my mind off my own problems. Fuck me. I just want to protect someone else, not myself.

Your hands went numb at first only temporarily. You couldn’t quite tell if your mental processes were effected the first time. Oh but you could when it wouldn’t go away. When you couldn’t sleep it off anymore. You’re confused all the time now. You have limited feelings in your hands and legs. Working has become more difficult, it’s hard to remember things people just said to you.

“Someone help, Someone please help me.” It’s what you want to paste in your facebook status, or your twitter client. When you are staring at unexplained symptoms, when you are staring at the potential of a disease that will be with you with the rest of your life, and you’ve burnt all the bridges of the people who physically manifest your life. You just need someone to come see you. Someone to help you get motivated to clean up the house. Someone to help you do something besides drink…Because that’s why you’re here. You drank so much, for so long. You may actually have something fatal, and no not something so classic as liver damage. Life like’s to make ironies. It always has. So you’re going to the doctor, to see if you have alcoholic neuropathy. The thing that makes you unique, your one admirable quality…It’s dieing. Your nervous system no longer cares what you do. It’s just going to be failing for the rest of your life. Or is it. It could be something more simple like a lack of thiamine, dry beriberi. But you don’t know, and you don’t know what seems more likely. You tried to cure yourself but the doctor’s visit looms in the future, altogether at once a source of dread and a source of hope.

I know I’ve said it before but it needs to be said again. All the education on drug and alcohol abuse I had to go through as a child, was not a deterrent. It really would have to try harder. The thing is they tell you, you’ll get brain damage. That the chemicals will physically hurt you. That they will possibly even kill you. But what they should explain about alcoholism, isn’t the blood on the brain, it isn’t the constant degradation of intelligence, the eventual collapse into Korsakoff’s syndrome, no not any of these. They should mention the constant diarrhea. From having a diet based exclusively on smoke and beer. The constant and ever flowing liquid shit. Then the blood. The first time you see the blood you think, well my poops a funny color today. And you can deny it for a while. That it’s not blood. Until one day you walk a couple miles, and your ass fills real sweaty. So you go to the bathroom, just to wipe the sweat off your ass…but it’s not sweat at all, it’s a primarily blood mixture. I’ll let you stipulate on the other ingredients.
So you’ve been smoking and drinking every day for 10 years or more, and 5 of those you have constant diarrhea which has mildly interfered with your life, and caused agitation to your inner asshole, so much the veins break and you get the occasional blood. And your walking into the liquor store, and you got the urge, for a toilet break. Normally you could deal with this, but it’s not normally. Because you accidentally took a big breath, and here comes that smokers cough. One of those, blows a bit of liquidy goodness right out your ass. As an alcoholic of 10 years or more though you have a system. You were already wearing a buffer pair of pj’s or longjohns in between your underwear and pants. So it’s just going to go down your leg, most likely no one will notice….well it depends on how much you got running down your leg. The smell might reveal yourself. So that’s when you enter the liquor store. You grab a couple of cheap bottles of wine, or a bottle of scotch. You pay the man, all the while your wondering…
does he know…that there’s shit on my leg. That actuall human feces is on me at this moment, while I’m handing him this twenty dollar bill. Does he know. Once you get your change back though, that’s something. You just fucking one. You have more alcohol, nothings really going to stop you. You don’t think about the drip down your leg anymore, you just waddle home. Happy as a clam. Knowing you won.
Until you make it home and you put the key in the door, and right at that moment, at that second, plop, it just made it in your shoe. Goddamnit. But you go to the bathroom you clean yourself thoroughly with toliet paper and soap. Then take a shower for good measure.(Probably take a poop first though). It’s over. Now crack the wine, and tommorrow is another day.