Symtpomatic of my Sobriety

When I woke up this morning I couldn't leave my bed. I tried to move and the limbs attatched to my weak frame wouldn't twich and jolt into action. I pushed myself out, onto the floor where I lay for some moments, contemplating which way to turn next. The dim figures on my digital alarm clock seemed to glare at me, to read the expression on my face but to turn away, embarassed. I fell downstairs to fill myself with some weak watery liquid, designed to envigorated my limp body. The shower scalded my skin and the night before hit me full-on, like a reversing truck. Where had I been? What had I done? Something shameful, no doubt. Something deeply and unspeakably shameful. Looking around I tried to establish my movements from
the state of my clothes, the cuts and bruises on my flesh... nothing. I could no more learn of the actions I had taken in the night as learn a new language, alien to my broken mind. Why had I done it? Why will I do it again? Because, dear reader, it is the easiest thing in the world. I hate my sobriety. When I am sober I am awkward, freindless and the very archetype of
"no fun". I want to be fun. I want to be liked.

And every morning I brush the ashes from my sheets, move the littered bottles and cans from my room into the vacant hall and stumble about, half-blind in the unrelenting light, desperate for an answer, desperate for a solution, desperate.

When I was a small boy, drunk people struck me as a different species. They shared a human frame, but they moved, spoke and thought in a way consistently foreign to my developing mind.

I have become what I then looked upon with pity and disgust. I am the epitomy of my horror, and I cannot escape. I try and try, until eventually I am sure I have won.

But when friends call, when people knock at the door and when I spill out into the street, full of hope and energy, the world beats me back inside. It pushes past me, rushes up the stairs and into my very bed. It's all I can do to follow it in, to yell and shout and bang around, trying to frighten it back into its hiding place.

But before I can turn around, it is I who has become trapped again.

God, please help me.