Updated: Jan 29
I consider leaving, I sip my water and ask myself a question,
'Whats the fucking point?' I feel a bit angry at myself for giving up drinking. Why would I do this to my life. it makes everything much harder. Being in a black out is appealing right now. Maybe thats why I did it. To make myself and others more bearable. My toes curl in my shoes and I feel like my glass just might shatter in my hand if I squeeze it any harder.
'You are doing this because you are trying to be better' says my healthy brain. It's true, I do feel better, happier. But being sat at the end of a table with a gaggle of half cut 40 somethings requires alcohol. My tolerance is thin, at breaking point. If one more person starts to blabber on about which teachers they hate at school or what diet works best for them I might get the napkin thats neatly laying underneath my tumbler and shove it in her pie hole.
but I don't. I smile. I know I have to do this. I have to learn how this works. Sober socialising - the most painful of things. I head back to the bar where I consider doing a sneaky shot.
'A pineapple and soda please'
I stand at the bar waiting as the still handsome barman squirts my drink into the ice filled glass. I look back at the table. They are starting to wither. The lipstick inset so neat and most have red rashes on their necks. their torsos lean into each other as they exchange outrageous stories. I stand superior and alone. I am not on that wave length anymore. I miss it. I miss the drunk me. She is fun and charismatic. She is confident and hilarious. She is loved. Now, I don't know how to be. A rock thats landed in a meadow of swaying flowers.
I take my seat and try my hardest to join on the festivity... as I talk my own voice almost deafens me. My desperation to fit in screams out in every syllable. I try and make a joke and it meets a glazed expression. My jaw aches from holding my ridiculous grin. I look like Jack Nicolson or the Joker.
I look at my watch wondering if I can go home.