Drought

It’s not plagiarism when it’s your own work right?

This post was from a long time ago, when a friend’s addiction had a big effect on my life, my day-to-day and my nightmares. I think it’s sometimes important to look back at where you came from, where you were, and how much you’ve moved on.

 

The hardest relationship I ever had was with a man who would never love me as much as he loved a bottle.
Youth meant nothing to him. Dreams, ambitions, long lost. All that mattered was when he could get his next fix. A legal high, but a prison sentence of the mind.
Labels don’t define an alcoholic like time does. A thirsty second, a dry minute, an hour of a drought. Much worse the day of moisture quenching his body as the sweat of withdrawal overtook his every thought…if he ever made it that far. Which he rarely did.
Each time he said that was it. And each time I knew was a lie.
It’s not only the alcoholic who changes, but the victims in the path of the typhoon. Those in the eye live in the moments before the raging winds take hold again, treasuring every second of the eerie silence and praying to never wake.
Then the storm takes hold. A crashing wave against a ship. A siren wailing in the night. The scream of your friend trapped alone in his room by his demons.
You spend every other second praying for a miracle and the ones in between knowing help won’t come.
But one day you realise, the sound is your friend. The manic laughing, the wretching, the sobbing…in the sound there is life. It’s the silence that tells of danger.
A knock on a door with no reply.
A phone call with no answer.
Your pleas left unanswered.
And that’s when the fear takes over. The paralysing fear that eats you like his addiction eats him.
Your mind over exaggerating every detail, making you feel everything you shouldn’t have done.
I shouldn’t have slept. I shouldn’t have left. I shouldn’t have left it get this far.
And so the alcohol isn’t just his enemy, it’s yours, and yet it’s the one thing that makes you forget it all. The irony, that what’s killing him makes you feel safe again.
Russian roulette, but only he has the bullet.
So out of control, yet so in control.
He holds the weapons every time. He weeps the poisonous tears. He emits the venomous words to say he loves you and every time it reels you back in.
But you can’t love him. Loving him only means loving the bottle of vodka stashed in his wardrobe. And the one in his desk drawer. And the small one in his inside coat pocket we pretended we didn’t know existed.
He pulls the trigger every time. And he takes you with him. It’s no longer a bullet, but a bomb, causing tremors of pain and fear with every gulp.
And soon that fear turns into anger. That anger eats you like his addiction eats him.
You try to tell yourself he can’t help it, and you still love him.
But you don’t. Because loving him is loving the explosion. And they become one and the same, the love and the fear.
As soon as you think it’s over it starts again.
You want it to go away. All of it. To stop. By any means necessary.
Then one day it stops. He leaves.
The silence is no longer deceptive.
The calm is calm. Peace is no longer the end of the latest war, but the treaty has been signed.
Too sudden, too soon, too many memories.
And the anger is futile. Lives are lost in every battle, no closure is called for and no apologies offered.
But the war leaves scars on its land. Battlefields broken and sights engraved in the minds of the soldiers.
But a defeated land pays reparations to those who were wronged in the tragedy of a war.
No one was repaid. No fortresses were repaired. And no battlefield was recovered.
Only hope. Hope that one day enough time will pass to forget. And that the reminders might not take you back to the darkest depths of your mind.
One day the scars will fade.

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