You wake up to a hangover, from a night of insobriety. You mixed beer with scotch whiskey with coffee-flavored tequila with some yet to be determined alcoholic poison and without a single drop of water, so a hangover shouldn’t be much of a surprise.
Growing up, you were told by experienced drinkers that drinking lets you forget. That alcohol blunts your senses, numbing you, as if it were a garden variety medical anaesthetic sold in bars and liquor shops. More often than not, though, this doesn’t apply to you. Strangely, drinking heightens your senses. Blurred images sharpen to a blinding vision. Silence becomes a cacophony of songs and voices and curses. Dormant emotions come roaring back to life like an angry, vengeful beast coming out of hiding. You are made aware of thoughts, ideas and other nuances, which you never thought even existed in your head.
Which is why, no matter how you brag about how you love drinking (and you actually do), you are frightened of it. What will you remind me again tonight, oh dear glass of whiskey sour? What will you make me feel again tonight? –your thoughts before taking that first swig from the glass of your favorite alcoholic concoction.
Last night, in that party with more than 80 journalists, you successfully resisted the challenge of remembering, of “becoming aware” by rejecting even a single drop of alcohol at the first hour. And then you gave in. Clearly, you are not frightened of a little dose of self-awareness, aren’t you? You dared yourself. F*ck reason and sanity, you are doing this.
A bottle of beer, then three; a glass of whiskey; a shot of tequila. There goes the once happy and bubbly Lilith.
“Something bothering you, dear?”
“Nothing. I’m just chilling,” you lied. A terrible lie.
A terrible lie, a terrible lie, a terrible lie. What were you reminded again of, Lilith? Better yet: What emotion, which you weren’t even aware existed, came roaring out of hiding? Why are you suddenly trying to fight the urge to break down and cry?
And while you just wanted to go home and hide in one corner of your room with the lights turned off for all eternity, you kept your calm, kept that visage of a happy, bubbly party animal going from one table to another, trying to be funny, making sure that every single guest is enjoying the night, making sure that no one shares that inner alcohol-induced misery.
And now, you struggle with your hangover, on your bed, typing away badly-written paragraphs of non-sense, preparing to be late for work, keeping yourself from crying over the thought that has wildly bothered you from last night. Never again, you told yourself. Not a single drop of alcohol again. Yet another terrible lie.
This is a part of my commitment to my daily morning writing exercises. Well, apparently, it hasn’t become that daily.