Unhappy Hour-a Story of Alcoholism and Survival
of its tolerance to the huge amount of booze that I was pouring into it. The third beer would force me to the toilet where I’d throw up everything I’d consumed. This normally left me lifeless on the floor, wondering what had hit
me. Sometimes Mary would hear the noise and come to help me she invariably found a broken man lying on the floor.
The Doc had spelt it out: “You’re killing yourself Alan. Read my lips: your liver has had enough.” Lying on the bed waiting for the third beer to not let me down, it occurred to me that a lot of well-meaning people had expressed their views about me and I had ignored all of them. Mary, my parents, brother, sister, friends, business colleagues, doctors, psychologists. Even strangers had had their say.
The anger welled up inside. This was one part of Alan Butterworth gone horribly wrong. I never asked to be awake at six on a lovely Margate morning, waiting to be sick and craving something other people took for granted. It happened. I was not looking to blame, only to survive. I wanted to scream out loud that I was not that bad. I wanted to tell the world to forgive me, not condemn me all the time. For God’s sake, I could be you. Or worse, you could be me.
My pity-party was interrupted by a sudden need to rush to the toilet. I made it in time for once and vomited into the bowl. It was definitely getting worse and once again I ended up sitting on the bathroom floor wiping my face. Many times I didn’t make it and had to throw up wherever I was standing. I struggled back to the bed and waited for the attack to pass.
I was in no doubt that the average alkie spent a lot more time dwelling on the problem than was apparent to an outsider. We’ve all passed the guy in the street motherless on booze, or we know some guy in the office who seems drunk all the time. Let me tell you a secret: those very same people probably spend a whole lot of their day scheming and dreaming a way out of their living hell. But as much as I would have liked to lie on my bed and scheme the day away, my personal demon was not going to allow that. It was time to get up. Getting dressed was no problem simply because I had not changed my clothes for six weeks, and slept in them as well. My shoes were old slip-ons which presented no hassles. The trick was to get up and get moving. Twenty metres to the office with a quick stop-over at the fridge for a cold beer, then into my seat in the office. Once there the world was my oyster.
My days of secret drinking had ended months earlier so I wasn’t worried about Mary surprising me. I drank as necessary now and piled the empties on my desk. Only later would the thought occur to me about the damage I was doing the business. No doubt countless people had wandered in and been horrified at the sight of pile of empty bottles and the wreck slumped in his chair. Not that the wreck gave a damn. There were more important things to attend to, like keeping the demon happy and the beers flowing.
The fourth beer broke my chain of thought and I polished it off in one long gulp. What a great invention the fridge was. I was safe and satisfied as the liquid surged through me and calmed my mind and body. Mother’s milk with a 5.5 percent alcohol content. My very own prescription, repeated whenever I felt the need. I even had my own barometer of how I felt. When I woke up this morning I would be at about two out of 10. Now I think I had hit about five. The best deal was sleep. It gave me a six or seven. The average? Probably about four.
This part of the day was my best time, alone in the office for at least an hour. In my bedroom I was always asleep or feeling bad. Here, after a few drinks I could sit back and relax with no pressure. No contact with people meant no hassles. No questions and no answers to be given. Only me, my thoughts and my beers.
All that would change at 8am as Alan Butterworth Estates kicked into life. On a busy day a number of people could pass through the doors. For weeks I had been unable to cope with demands and requests that had not been a problem before. Paranoia had crept into my psyche and I could feel people looking through me. To those who had known me for some time I must have been a real shock. The downfall of a respectable and well-known local businessman before their very eyes. My Addiction of Alcoholism and my Anxiety of what people thought of me were at the back of my mind now.
Mary and I had started in 1994 with absolutely nothing and built up a good business. The office was full of the memories of those days. The walls were covered in house plans, advertising, signs etc, all portraying a thriving and interesting profession. How the hell was I able to put that all together and yet fall so far? I had no idea how the business was doing. We appeared busy every day but I had zero interest in it. I found more solace from the beer in my hand and