I can feel it. The pull to take a beer or any other drink I have every night, when the thoughts come creeping up. The sweet, blissful promise of release from the voices in my head and the cool, refreshing feeling as the liquid touches the back of my throat, giving me a sensation similar to falling into the arms of someone who cares. They won’t shut up, so I drown them. Just for tonight, because a permanent way to shut them up doesn’t seem to exist. A constant battle, day after day, always ending in my twisted, ironic victory. Like fighting a bomb – it doesn’t matter if it dies or not, for it’s goal is to maim me by giving it’s life.
I can feel my body turning into this grotesque thing; chubby, unhealthy…dying. And yet, the mind must be master of the body. If the mind cannot be master of it’s own self, how is it expected to be master of the body? Like a father taking the heat for his son’s mistake, the body suffers for the weakness of the mind.
These damn voices. Nothing will make them go away. Medication is too expensive, a good friend to talk to? That’s worse than the worst joke ever…It seems that alcohol is all I have, and it’s just killing me.