Recovery

Being the eternal optimist I've always found it hard to accept
peoples criticism of my habits, particularly my drinking.
"Shut up you daft cunt" would come my reply "Some people like golfing
after work , I like drinking"
And that would be the end of the matter as far as I was concerned. I'd
deliberately ignore their concerned looks casting them as busy bodies
that needed to lighten up. After all the blokes I enjoyed drinking with
were all heavier drinkers than myself, these guys were all in
reasonable health so what did I have to fear? Myself it would seem. I
guess some people just get hooked faster or easier than others. it all
started with a few beers after each day at work, normal enough, then id
start skipping work if the hangovers were severe enough and go have a
few to take the edge off it. When my attendance at work became an issue
i took to sneaking booze in for consumption at the desk, either mixing
rum into my 2 litre bottle of coke or a couple of Stella's in my
briefcase. Id pour the contents of the can into a coffee mug with a
large head that made it look somewhat like a cappuccino. Stellacinos, I
christened them. My drinking buddy Phil preferred to call them power
mugs. But the buzz was the same, you could sit there drinking at the
desk even with the boss 5 meters away, simple but effective. Pretty
soon the hangovers disappeared and the banging in my head became
background noise that I had gotten used to. All off this is pretty
standard stuff, people like myself are everywhere. Not just the bums
you see on the street. At my first, and last, AA meeting most of the
other guys were professionals. Ex professionals, anyway, who blew their
careers and/or families on the bottle. Almost all of us have woken up
in jail cells, on the streets and more often than not in our own beds
having been marinating in our own piss.

It wasn't out of character for me to wake up fully clothed, i often
passed out the moment I got home. This particular morning the smell of
human excrement filled my nostrils. I groaned, thinking I had shit
myself again. But this morning was different. The sloppy brown mess,
for some peculiar reason, was on the outside of my jeans. It looked
particularly disgusting in contrast to the cream coloured jeans I had
strode out in the previous night. How in gods name had I fouled the
outside of my breaches, this was a mystery that would have to be solved
later. For now I had to get rid of those stinking Levis in case anyone
called round. Opening the wheelie bin i had noticed it was still full.
Fucking dustmen must have been on strike again. Leaving them on top of
the garbage was out the question so I began digging rubbish out so that
I could bury my shame, after all I had to protect the last remnants of
my dignity. The neighbours had lost all respect for me months ago but
id be damned if the bin men were going to point out the extent of my
depravity. As I dug through the empty beer cans and the rotting
tropical fish I reflected that it might have been wiser to flush them
down the bog, the fish, not the Levis. I also wondered how long they
had been dead before I had noticed. Had they started feeding on each
other when the big guy passed out on the couch stopped sprinkling those
stinking flakes into the tank. With my grisly task over I retreated to
the safety of the bath. My hands were shaking like a geigometer needle
at Chernobyl and in the bath was the only place I felt truly safe by
now. Id been having panic attacks for the last month or so that felt
like full on heart attacks. The doctor told me that my heart was fine
but my nerves were shot to pieces. He'd given me a prescription for
pills of some description and a load of unsolicited advice about living
a healthy lifestyle. I was willing to take on the advice about cutting
the caffeine and sugar and even the part about regular exercise but
what was this clown talking about cutting out the alcohol. This wasn't
an option. Only 2 things calmed me down, the cold baths and the booze
and I couldn't very well stay i the fucking bath all day now could I.
Maybe I should take up scuba diving. Hmm. That should take care of the
exercise part too. Clambering out of my icy cold sanctuary i dried
myself with a towel that looked like it hadn't been washed in weeks and
made a mental note to pick up some soap powder on my way to the local
pool.

The pool was no place for someone in my state, today must be Saturday
or some school holiday because it was full of screaming kids. That
noise is fiercer than any hangover in the world. The sound of a hundred
brats having a whale of a time while the constant blasting of the
lifeguards whistle rebukes them for running bombing and petting
overenthusiastically. I approached the young lady working the desk. Her
name badge read Amanda, she was about 21 with pony tailed hair pulled
back so tightly it appeared to be lifting her pencil thin eyebrows to a
point halfway up her forehead, apart from this she could have been very
pretty. Her high pitched voice echoed around the tiled building
"Hiya, one for a swim?"
"Er no love, I've come to see about scuba diving"
This seemed to have a positive impression on her and she toyed with her
hair, starring at me whistfully as she rang through to Tim, the man in
charge of the local sub aqua club.
"Hiya Tim, there's someone down ere, come to see you about scuba
diving"
Tim was down in an instant, flashing me a perfect white smile he
squeezed my hand, hard. he was obviously the sort that thought you
could tell a lot about someone by their handshake. I could tell from
his vice like grip that Tim was a prick; he'd no doubt taken up scuba
instructing in order to lay women. Amanda was frantically rearranging
her hair I could tell she was eager to join the legions of conquests
Timmy had no doubt racked up. Women loved guys like this. It really
made me ill. Tim had obviously sized me up sharpish too, his smile had
waned the second I gave him my name; no doubt he could smell stale
alcohol despite the fact that I had brushed my teeth twice this
morning. I've often been told that my body odour smells of booze, maybe
that was it. One of the first things I had to do was fill in a
questionnaire regarding the state of my health. I wondered whether my
panic attacks constituted a mental illness, but I decided not to
disclose it as it may hinder my foray into self-help therapy. I filled
out the questionnaire and agreed to turn up on Tuesday night for an
introduction to scuba session. Job done. Too easy. Timmy hadn't
bothered to hang around while I filled in the questionnaire no doubt I
wasn't his type.

Once I was back in the bath I started plotting the next step on my road
to recovery. As far as I could see sexual stimulation took my mind off
the anxiety dogged my day. The sweating palms, the pounding heart and
constant shaking all seemed to evaporate once I was turned on, for
whatever reason. As with staying in the bath, jacking off to porn, 24
hours a day seemed a little inconvenient. For one thing it would mean
that i would have to stay at home and that's not exactly recovery. The
bills would soon be piling up id only got 4 weeks severance pay from
work and I desperately needed a job. Like a certain famous Greek before
me i sat in my bath and cried Eureka at the ingenious idea that came to
me. Once again I climbed out and towelled off, cursing myself for
forgetting the soap-powder and grabbed the yellow pages. Turning to
adult shops, I found one in the area and punched the numbers into my
handset.
"Private lines" came a gruff sounding Yorkshire man at the other end of
the line.
"Er yes I was wondering if you needed a shop assistant" I
enquired.
"When can you start?"
"As soon as you need me"
"Come down this aft, and ill give you an interview"
"Okay that's great thanks".
Well that was easy enough I thought, the only down side being the
prospect of an interview. I was bound to fold in such a situation; I
started sweating at the mere prospect. I grabbed a couple of cans from
the fridge and climbed back into the tub. The effect of the booze was
amazing, after only 2 cans all my fears were washed away, for now at
least. I had to get down the porn shop, fast. It was only about a
kilometre away and I decided to take the docs advice about exercise and
get a jog on. On my way I stopped at the local shop to buy a pack of
extra strong mints to disguise the smell of the beer, while there I
eventually remembered my washing powder and set off jogging, sucking on
my tremors, a box of Daz ultra tucked under my left arm.