Saturday 7 August 2010

Pariah

This is a story that I was thinking about for a while, but wasn't sure how to approach it. It was at Dublin Horse Show in August '10 that I finally came upon my introduction, and with that I found a voice for the story. Don't draw anything from the fact that I wrote it at Dublin Show.

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I hear them sniggering and laughing as I stand unsteadily at the checkout counter, fumbling in my pockets for loose change that I'm not even sure is in there.
The thoughts try to form in my head, there's a few coins in there right? I know that I have money somewhere and I try to explain this to the girl behind the counter but she avoids making eye contact with me. She is uncomfortable.
I look to the faces around me hopelessly, most people look away, the rest look on in disgust. My clothes are untidy, my hair disheveled and I'm probably in need of a wash, certainly in need of a shave.
I want to do these things but somehow the time is never there for me.
"Such a waste," I hear one woman say, "all the advantages he had."
Inside me a part of my soul dies.
"And brains to burn too. How anyone can get themselves in such a state."
In the dark nights I think about that too, to try and find some reason, some excuse, something to blame other than my own weakness.
But in truth it was no one thing, no single event that set me down this course from which I find it impossible to escape.
Like being caught in a whirlpool, my life is spiralling downward carrying me out of control on it's inexorable path, I struggle at times just to keep my head above water.
And in the darkest nights I think that there is one easy way out...
But I don't want to go out that way, that is not how I want to be remembered, this is not what I want my life to mean.
On quiet nights not so long ago I would be home from work, back to a home that had been empty for some time, and with my dinner I would open a bottle of beer.
I liked the way the alcohol took the edge off the day, it helped me to unwind and relax, it allayed the boredom of an empty home.
Soon however the beer no longer gave me a feeling that satisfied, so a bottle of beer became a bottle of wine, and not long later in the scheme of things a bottle of wine became two.
I would cry at my loneliness, a feeling amplified by the alcohol in my blood, to make the sorrow go away I would drink more. I would drink until I could no longer think.
And with the hangovers my work suffered, questions were asked.
Was everything all right at home?
Was I feeling ok?
I would always smile and say I was fine, I just head friends round and things went on longer than they should. Nothing to worry about, no big deal.
Inside I was in tears.
At home I would hide the empty bottles, there was no one to hide them from but still I did. I was hiding them from myself.
I am ashamed of myself.
The loss and loneliness became shame and depression, I no longer drank to forget but instead would drink until I like myself. And that was something becoming more difficult to do.
Vodka satisfied when the wine failed to suffice, bit by bit I came to love that bittersweet tang. A bottle a day became no great event.
When I was caught drinking at work my career was over but by now I no longer cared.
I despised myself, hated the drink and hated what I had become. Hated that I didn't care. Sitting in closed shop fronts or park benches with a bottle in my hand became the centre of my existence.
I hear people saying all the time what a mess I am, how it is such a terrible shame that I have thrown away my life. They say these things like they think I cannot hear, cannot understand.
When I loathe myself enough I do try to quit, to face my demons.
I cut my hair, wash my clothes, shave and give every outward impression that I am the man I once was.
Inside however I can feel a fire burning.
I am scared of the world now, afraid to try and make a go at anything. I am scared even of being bored.
As evenings draw near I am frightened the most, what will I do? How will I pass the time? Simple things won't amuse me and then what will I do?
People look at me when I walk the streets, I know what they're thinking.
They are waiting to see when I will fall again.
I hate them at first, but then in a clear head I realise that it is my own doing and then I hate myself.
I hate that I am weak. I hate that my character is so flawed. I hate how I have ruined my life.
And in that cycle of self loathing I open a bottle of wine, and when it is gone I start to laugh. A warm feeling of joy builds up inside me.
I laugh, and then I begin to cry.
Why am I cursed this way? I call this a one off, that I won't take any tomorrow, but I do, and again the next day. I make a deal with myself, I'll finish out this week and then no more. I have yet to ever keep my end of that bargain.
All I want is to be happy and find someone to love for I have so much love to give, my life could be so simple if only I could find a way.
But the only feeling of warmth or acceptance in my life comes from a glass bottle.
The girl in the shop tells me I don't have enough money.
I try to plead my case intelligently but the words fail to come and I know that I look lost.
I walk away from the counter forgetting my groceries, forgetting the money I had handed over, forgetting why I was there.
Dignity was not something to forget for I no longer had any to lose.
Old women look at me with frowning eyes, disapproving as if I were a product of the times, as if there weren't people like me when they were my age.
I stagger and lean against a magazine rack, have I forgotten something?
I stare at the cover of a home interiors magazine trying to think what it is I might have forgotten.
The house on the cover is lovely and I feel a pang of jealousy. I want to try and sort myself out.
To really make a go of it.
I want a better life, the kind of life that I can be proud of.
But my mind is a haze right now and thoughts won't stay.
I want so badly for things to be better.
I want so badly for someone to love.
I want some crisps and a packet of Jaffa Cakes, and I want something to drink.
People are looking at me and I don't like it. What do they know anyway? I'm sure their lives aren't perfect but they'd sooner cast judgement on me than make a change of their own.
The sunlight hurts my eyes, somehow I am outside and I don't know why. Surely there was something that I came here for, wasn't there? I was thinking about something, or someone.
I am alone, lost. I am so very, very sad.
I hate the sadness, I hate the drink. I hate myself.
The tears are forming in my eyes.
People look away as they walk into the shop, hurrying their children on, whispering to one another.
"You don't know what he might do."
"He's a disgrace, someone should lock him up."
I curse them under my breath and collapse against the shop window banging my head. They turn and stare as I slide toward the ground.
Nobody calls for the police, they never do. I'm not a troublemaker, I'm the object of pity. I'm just a mess. Sometimes I wish that they would call the police.
I remember having a nice car and a nice girlfriend, I remember a time when it was said I would go far.
It was not so long ago and yet it feels like ancient history.
I am the broken relic of my own past.
Sitting on the cold concrete with my head against the shop window I fumble in my pockets spilling money, tissues and notes I had written about everything and nothing.
I find at last a quarter bottle of vodka that had been stashed away in the deep recesses of my once good coat.
People walk by shaking their heads, tears are running down my cheeks, they don't know how hard it is, they don't know why I cry.
The only feeling of warmth or acceptance in my life comes from a glass bottle.
I put it to my lips and drink deep.