There are a lot of things about being an alcoholic that you don’t hear about. For me, the biggest surprise was how often I had to shit. And they weren’t fun shits either; they were sloppy, wet, liquidy shits. And they stunk. More so than regular shits. Shit stinks; shit made mostly of beer and rum absolutely reeks.
Now that’s out of the way, how’re you? It’s Monday evening, I have a cold, and I feel like fucking garbage. Which is actually incredibly appropriate, as I am garbage. I’m a garbage person. It took a long time for me to come to terms with that fact, but at some point I accepted at. At some point I realised I wasn’t special, that I don’t matter, that the world will never know my name. I’m just a man (technically) who exists for no reason. But who is constantly looking for one.
I tell my therapist that I figure life should either have a point, or be fun. And then I ask her; what am I supposed to do with mine, which is neither? My life neither has a point, nor is it any fun. I try to make it fun; I travel, go to new places, meet new people, try new foods, generally just do a bunch of shit I haven’t done before. I read, I write, I watch TV and films. I have a fiancée, a cat, a dog, I own my home, I make a good living from my job. The other thing I regularly tell my therapist is that I pay her to complain about how good my life is. Because on the surface it is. From the outside looking in, it’s all peaches and gravy (Scott Pilgrim). So why in the holy fuck am I always so unhappy?
I think it’s because I lie to myself. I’ve been lying to you as well. Am I fuck accepting of the fact that I’m not special. Why would I? No one is accepting of this fact. We’re all the main character in our own stories, so of course we think we’re special. The problem is, it’s hard to get outside of your own head. And even when you can, even when I regularly do, the logical part of me is always shouted down by the emotional part of me. I know full well that I’m only the main character in my story, and no one else’s. I know that to others I range from being a total nobody to being the sidekick. I know that I’m only important to myself, to the level I want to be. I know all this, but it still depresses the shit out of me.
I want to be somebody, you know? I want to matter. I want the world to know that I’m alive. It kills me that the world doesn’t care about me. It kills me that I don’t matter. What’s the fucking point?
That’s all I had to write, but as I’ve set myself a target of 1,000 words for each of these chapters/stories/whatever-the-fuck-they-ares, I’m now just going to continue typing for another…487 words.
I’m sitting in the study and I can hear my neighbour through the wall. He’s a walking cliché of a gamer, and it pisses me off no end. Sometimes. Other times, I couldn’t care less. That’s one of the wonderful things about depression, at least my depression; I have literally zero consistency. Right now I want to knock on the neighbour’s front door and tell the fat, smelly, probably-personality-disordered fuck to shut the fuck up. Other times, I just let the noise wash over me, unmoved.
It pisses me off sometimes because I’m a gamer too, but a normal one. I’m not overweight (ok I am, but only by like 1-2 stone – I’m skinny everywhere except my big fat belly – but that’s a part of alcoholism we’re all very aware of), I have friends and a fiancée, I have a good job. Basically I’m a normal person who plays and loves computer games. I shower every day! So every now and then, when I see or hear the neighbour, it winds me right up. He’s giving me a bad name. All the normies think everyone who plays computer games is a freak like this guy. They don’t realise that a lot of gamers are just normal people like me.
When I don’t care is when I’m swallowed by apathy, and couldn’t care less what other people think of me, or anyone else. People hear I play games and assume I’m a fat, smelly shitbird? Whatever, I literally couldn’t care less. I don’t care what people think of me, how they see me. My fiancée and my pets like me, and that’s all I need. I’d love a bit of consistency, but it’s just not gonna happen. I’ve been hoping and trying for it for many years, and have made literally no progress. So I’ve given up.
When do you stop being an alcoholic? I haven’t had a drink in over 18 months, not even a drop, and yet I guess I’m still an alcoholic? I did used to go to meetings, but COVID put a stop to that. They’ve probably started up again, but a combination of finding stopping drinking surprisingly easy, plus being extremely lazy, means I probably won’t.
I’m on 900 words now and obviously have found something I want to talk about: publishing. The only reason I’m writing this is because I don’t have the effort to write a new book. I’ve written 12 novels. 1 has been published. And that was through crowdfunding, so it doesn’t even feel real. I mean, I’m clearly a shit writer, but come on. My novels can’t all be that bad, surely? Some of the fucking shit that’s out there.
But of course, literature is a victim of late-stage capitalism. Nothing is safe. Books that will sell are published, regardless of how shit they are. I’m not saying this to mean the reason I don’t get published is because I don’t write commercial fiction. What I’m saying is I reckon I could get published if I did write commercial fiction. But I’m not going to. And it isn’t out of artistic integrity or anything like that. Fuck no. It’s about fear.
What if I fail?