A is for… Aprilhol?

A is for alcohol.

I knew it was going to be okay because when I turned the speakers on, Audioslave was playing. And I don’t fly around your fire anymore.

I kept hearing Tim Robbins’ voice in my inner ear, telling me that the ocean has no memory. I don’t know why this is important. It’s April first, which is the day after witchcraft was invented, a bunny laid an egg – and Jesus, but with laser beams. None of it makes a lick of coherent sense. I find myself staring into a stack of pots and pans (clean) lined up and reporting for duty. The steel sides reflect and seem to refract (but not really because that’s not how light works). I don’t want to lose my mind for too long. It’s hard to find a place where gravity makes sense. The windows were left open all night. Spring has arrived.

I don’t know if coffee will be okay today. There are gerbils in the habitrails of my insides and I think every one of them is mad at me about something. I hear them growling. I tried to pass them, as I think any normal person would, but they cling to their upset and to my viscera. I try the coffee anyway, and it seems to be alright. My wife, the gem, took care of me, got me ahead of the storm safely. She got me into harbor safely; I only remember storms at sea and little else. Faces blur a little, as they always do. The usual suspects were all there. They look at you once, maybe twice, to make sure you’re real and you’re okay. You talk, and the apprehension falls away – everything is okay. The artifacts of my trip are all there on the table, even the ones I’m sure I lost in the wind and spray.

Then the demon bitch alcohol rises from the steaming heap of her own vacated void. She’s subtle at first, cajoling and touching me in my happy places. She reminds us of all the things she’s done to make our lives okay. She reminds of things she’s helped us forget – and will continue to help us forget, if we just acknowledge this one time that she’s helping. Just this one time and every other time.

It isn’t a common thing for me to drink this much, but it does happen once in a while. I learned last year what the sugar was doing to me, and I dialed it way, way, way, way back. I dropped 20% of my biomass, and 27% of my body fat in six months. Why is that relevant? I think what I lost was storage for all the old demons. There is so much I don’t remember. I’m more healthy for having learned, but somehow I am diminished as well. It’s okay.

The morning after is a strange and perfect time to expel thoughts, free-form it a little, and try to come to grips with the little insanities that run wild in the hours between face-down-blasted-drunk and returned to an upright position. I think my tray table is secured; my seat belt is fastened.

A is for alcohol.

A is for April.

A is for asshole-in-recovery.

I don’t know why I get all torn to pieces when I pass holidays with my family. There must be something in the water wherever we are.