I have a tenuous relationship with alcohol, and handle it with the same established privilege of grey haired white guy writers everywhere. We don’t need an intervention. We know. We surf the edge, and we goddamn well know it. But in spite of our calculated nihilism (Hemingway and all), sometimes, as we’re stumbling through the house at 2:30AM and the spins hit just a bit harder than expected, we stop and whisper to ourselves:
“Too close.”
It’s a state I recognize, having had a significant amount of experience with it. It’s that cut off point between you and the drunk that everyone knows in the circle, but conveniently forgets about in conversation. The one who becomes a whole new nasty person once they hit that certain special level of magic. It’s that precipice we walk along, just trying to find some solace from the hurt, but dangerously aware of the cliffs below. It’s the narrow window when those closest to you aren’t sure they can talk to you about it, but have started thinking about how to. It’s also far back enough from the line that we won’t listen.
We already know. Too close.
We know from your concerned glances, and your attempts to suggest it’s a good time to end the night. We know from the knowing looks passed between our friends, who recognize the early signs of us reaching our limit, but don’t understand how cognizant we still are, and how indignant we are that they’ve assumed we’re already past that line that we know inside we will indeed pass soon. It’s the certainty that their concern will be valid soon, combined with the sense of personal agency in deciding that we are damn sure going to walk up to that line.
We know, in those moments when there’s no one else awake, and we’re still trying to find enough peace just to get some goddamn sleep, and we’re battling our own damn common sense about whether or not the next cocktail is the one that helps you slow your brain enough to close your eyes, and maybe, just maybe, you get some rest tonight.
We know. Too close. And we know that it’s not good enough that you know we know. The shitty truth is that no matter how much your knowing hurts, we’re still going to do whatever we have to do to make the endless screaming of our daily existence fade away into the background. No matter how many times we see that look of either concern or contempt on your face, it pales in comparison to the noise in our head that we’re compelled to drown.
We know. I know. Too close. Maybe the “we” is what I fall back into when I know how close I am.
I have my rituals of control. They come out after every well intentioned intervention, every reminder of the previous evening’s blackout, the financial accounting of alcohol expenses, the accusatory collection of this week’s empty bottles. “Time to get it under control”, I think, and go into “slow down” mode. Take every other night off from drinking. No drinking til the weekend. Switch to red wine instead of vodka, drop to single shots, maybe just a light beer. But they’re all just buffers, like New Orleans levees, generally perceived as strong enough to hold back the flood until a real storm comes through.
And believe me, those storms will come.
“Too close” doesn’t just refer to the edge of alcoholism, of course. It’s a measure of the line between conscious control and a complete surrendering to the dark abyss that haunts us. It’s the ever tempting whisper in the back of our minds to give in to the demons of self destruction, to tie ourselves to the stake, and to watch it all burn down. The desires of our baser selves are carnal and endlessly hungry, but will never be satisfied until they turn inward, devouring everything that was once good about us. We are Ouroboros, and if we cross that line, we will swallow ourselves.
Even as I write this, I’m already thinking about the vodka cocktail I’ll be sipping a little later in the evening. The promise of that softened state where the hard edges of reality get knocked off and rounded is like the thought of cold water on a hot day to someone working outside. In the early hours of this morning, I dreamed that I went into my freezer and pulled out the bottle stored there and took a swig directly, and heard my partner’s voice suggesting it might be a little bit early for that. Even in my dreams, “too close” is never beyond arm’s reach.
I heard the phrase “pleasantly blotto” in a Stephen King book, and it stuck with me, because if ever there was a phrase which sums up the target of people like me, that’s it. There is such peace and happiness in that perfect golden state of buzz. Inhibitions drop away. My love for people is at its peak. My pain is numbed, my mind calm. I am happy, a state which rarely occurs in my life, not through the fault of friends, family, or experience, but through a hardwired perception of the world with a mental radio locked into a channel with nothing but static and the knobs ripped off, nothing but endless white noise that magnifies physical pain, and makes it hard to sleep.
Blotto is an arc, however. And you never stay right there at the top of that arc. You either begin the descent towards sober, or you begin the descent down the other side, towards that place where balance, both physically and emotionally, becomes challenging. You are reduced to an animal, shoving fist fulls of food into your maw, and pawing desperately at potential sexual partners. You are raw hunger and instinct and need.
“Too close” is surveying the damage the next morning. It’s remembering, or being reminded, of the things you said and did. It’s false promises to yourself that you’re going to change, “taking a break”, pondering a life without alcohol, while knowing that you don’t have the wherewithal to actually do it. It’s measuring the distance to your next binge.
“Too close” is too close, and if you’re already there, you’ve already gone too far.