Journal entry 1

See the thing is that when you don’t talk about things that happen to you, things start to seem acceptable, normal even. First your headaches get bad and then you start buying pills – nothing fancy of course – but now you are buying lots of different pills in different boxes and they are all sizes and all colours and you keep them in the small wooden cupboard next to your old sunken bed.

Now a bit of time has passed and your sleeping patterns have just about turned to shit and you know that alcohol is never then answer but it has to answer something, right? You’re a sleepy drunk and there is no need to really get drunk, just a little wine. A bit more wine. A bottle of wine.

But wine doesn’t do it anymore, does it? Hey, brandy is pretty good and you buy this small bottle of the good French stuff and you scowl at that little bottle and mummer: “you’re an expensive little shit, aren’t you” while you walk home. The brandy lasts a week when you mix it with that cheap soda that makes you gag and so you buy some vodka – the real fun stuff with the funny flavors and the 20 percent – and that goes down like a slick jug of sick. You polish off half the vodka in one night and so it’s back to the wine and down goes a tot of whiskey.

For a while it is so great because, good god, you’re sleeping and you are sleeping and there is a normal cycle to your day to day fucking life: drink, sleep, work, repeat. You wake up at 7am and you’ve slept for 6 hours – about 4 hours more than usual – and all it takes to shake it off is a good cold shower and a bit of breakfast. Then it comes to finishing off the half bottle of wine that night and then you down the whiskey and you get out of bed and you stumble towards your cupboard and there are the pills with boxes in such delightful colours and down goes a handful of pink ones and yellow ones and white ones.

Sometime after you have fallen back on the bed you remember that you should tidy up, the bottles still sit with their caps abandoned and you remember how much liquid you have drank and remember how far away the loo is and how there are too many people living in this apartment. You curl up into the kind of ball position favored as a child and then you stop remembering.

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