Hanging on Hungover?
Updated: Mar 8, 2019
Consciousness approached like a terrifying nightmare about to begin. Before I embarked on the dreadful task of opening my eyes I first needed to surpass the marching band encased in my mind nearly cracking the inner walls of my skull.
A few moments into consciousness surfacing I realized there was no marching band marching in my mind, just the absurd pulsating blood vessels that had been abused by vodka the night prior. I was certain that my headache, that was beating to the drum of an overworked heart, would certainly end up fracturing my delicate skull.
Now the task of presenting my pupils to the world. It was a process, and I had to start somewhere.
My eyes slowly came apart like a dungeon door being pried open. It took more effort then was present just to unglue my eyelids from each other.
As difficult as it had been up to this point, now I had to navigate the presence of light piercing my vision like a dagger through flesh.
Darkness was a lonely and damp place, especially the inner darkness of the hungover alcoholic. Darkness seemed so much more comfortable than the light, light meant exposure.
As the light punctured my eyeballs and instantly dilated my pupils, my mind was intimidated by the fact that night had passed and day had birthed.
My skull tried to hold the rhythmic expansion of my brain screaming to me to stop this habitual insanity, the headache doesn’t even begin to describe what pain my head was experiencing. Explosive pain radiated down my neck and my body felt like cement was drying in my veins.
The pain and the sickly sluggishness were more then one could fathom enduring. I tried to talk, but my saliva was like dried Elmer’s glue coating the inside of my mouth.
As discomforts of drastic proportions shown like blinking flood lights all over my insides and out, I begin to feel a pain in my right hand.
Trying to move my fingers was like trying to unthaw tree branches in sub-zero temperature. The slight movement of my fingers and hand sent wreathing pain up my arm.
It was then that my brain tried to rouse my memory into retracing my steps because I had no clue what I had done the night before and why I was waking up in a cold and lonely jail cell.
I never would have thought that the “fun” of teenage drinking would have pulled me to the pits of hell on earth. Addiction is a venomous beast with death as its goal, but it starts slow.
It starts with a smile and a joy, albeit a counterfeit one, quickly followed by a sucker punch to the soul.
If you know what this description is like but have been freed from its grip, don’t forget to go back and help the people still chained to the agonizing assault of addiction. And if you are still caught in the torturous life of drug and alcohol addiction, get help.
A beautiful life of freedom and grace await you. Coming up on a decade of freedom from addiction there was a day when that story was my not so memorable morning.