Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [115]
The hives are fusing. They are not splotches now. They are like ropes, wrapped all around me. I am afraid.
In the middle of the night I understand that I am in alcohol withdrawl and that it is serious and that I need to be in a hospital. But I cannot walk across my apartment, even to pee. I must pee in bed, sober, not asleep. I must pee in bed because I am too sick to walk. When I stand, I become massively dizzy and begin to black out. My legs itch and I have caused them to bleed. My throat feels like it has narrowed. Like I have hives inside my throat now. They feel like hands around my neck.
It takes me three hours to prepare, but by morning I am dressed and I am walking down the two flights of stairs. I walk into the Korean market that is just downstairs and never closes. I go to the beer case and I buy hard cider. I am in agony as I wait for my change, having handed him a twenty. Finally, I cannot wait while he answers the phone. “It’s okay,” I say, and leave without a bag.
Upstairs, I uncap a bottle and I drink from it as though it is water. And the effect is nearly immediate, but it is not enough. I drink three more in succession. My hands stop shaking and I feel calmer. The hard cider is medicine, now. Like in rehab, this is what they do with the really, really bad cases. They feed them small volumes of alcohol to lessen the physical withdrawal. They call it tapering.
I stash the remaining bottles in the refrigerator and get back into my filthy bed. I turn on my right side, not my heart side, and I try to sleep. But again, as soon as I begin to drift to sleep, I have the feeling that I am falling from a great height and I am startled awake.
I am going to die. If I fall asleep, my heart will stop and I will die. I need to be in a hospital now. I have alcohol poisoning.
Oh my God, what have I done to myself? I am too afraid to move.
Forty-eight hours later, I am better. The hives have reduced, though my legs are covered in welts, some split and bleeding. But I can tell they have lessened. My hands are not shaking. I drank the remaining bottles of hard cider and today have had no alcohol. I have had cranberry juice.
I feel as though I will not die.
And also, I feel as though I came very close to death.
This is not a joke, I tell myself. I poisoned myself with alcohol. I almost killed my fucking self. I look around my apartment, standing in the center of it, the filth, everywhere, in piles, on surfaces, dead fruit flies, living fruit flies. Who would have found me? And when?
I sit at my computer and there is still some Dewar’s in the cup next to me. The cup sits on top of the two-year-old box my computer came in. This is my table. Its top is concave, ready to implode. I drink from a Santa mug, a holiday mug I bought at the pharmacy downstairs for two dollars because I was sick of drinking from plastic cups and decided I deserved a real cup.
A film of dead fruit flies cover the surface of the liquid.
I will never take another drink for the rest of my life.
I am in no position to say this. It is the One Thing an alcoholic should never say. It is the one thing an alcoholic cannot be certain of. It is unrealistic, part of denial.
I will never drink again.
And I will clean this apartment and reinvent myself and change every single thing until I am unrecognizable. I will new and improve myself, like an ad.
I will start now.
I take my mug to the kitchen sink and I pour the liquid into the drain. But what do I do with the mug? There is no trash can here. It’s all a trash can.
I am so tired.
I set the mug on the counter. I need to sleep. I wonder if I can.
I get back into bed and this time, I fold