TERROR: the prick of the herd

Congratulations, doomed comrade!

You successfully drank yourself comatose once again, just a few hours ago. It’s time for your wake up call.

“Consciousness. Damn it!”

What did you expect? Oblivion sleep is never more than a few hours, in spite of your valiant efforts to pump your blood alcohol content beyond the fatal level. Your BAC would kill a normal person. Not you. Not at this stage. You have only oblivion, the vast blackness of night surrounding you…

Ground Hog Day. Welcome to the Rest of Your (Short) Life.

Your consciousness beckons, eyelids flickering open.
Oh my god… what the hell is that?

This monster is huge and black as coal. Why is he staring into my eyes? Does he blink? It seems as though he’s been looking at me, just waiting for my eyes to open. Shit! Why did I open them? I can’t stop staring at him. His threatening teeth. His horse’s nostrils flaring, black eyes burning. His breath smells repulsive. He’s so angry with me. He intends to torture me. Please somebody.

Please get me out of here.

My pulse is racing. I have pain of unknown origin in my chest. I can’t clear my throat. My legs are weak, I’m dizzy, seeing black spots whirl around me. I hold myself tightly, clutching my arms around my belly. I try to suppress tremors. I moan, whimpering inaudibly. My mind stabs repeatedly at attempts to flee, to run away, with no destination in mind. Anywhere but here. But anywhere I go, there I am.

The Jumping Off Point

By the spring of 2016, I’d ridden for too long with These Horsemen. This Horseman’s cruelty and inescapable viciousness has pushed me over the edge.

There is absolutely no doubt in my mind, if I owned a gun, I would suppress the tremors rippling throughout me just long enough, pressing the barrel so hard against my temple that it’s imbedded. This has to work and be final. I don’t want it to move a millimeter, before I pull the trigger.

I’m tired.

I’m incapable of playing alcoholic Russian Roulette any longer.

Sobriety. Relapse. Binge. Massive GI bleed. Sobriety, Relapse…

Did I land on the chamber loaded with The Stranger’s fatal bullet? That depends on whether I walked out of the hospital or left in a body-bag, wearing a toe-tag.

Tally: Nine massive GI hemorrhages, five requiring hospitalization and immediate blood transfusions. Damn it! No toe tag. This time, I want to play with a real fucking gun. All chambers loaded. I’m terrified to pursue one on my own. No one will accompany me. I’m unable to stay sober long enough to face the gun shop’s owner, and complete the background paperwork. I ask a very close friend for one. Afterwards, he called me every day, made himself available 24-7. But no gun crossed hands. I am pounded on, crushed and pulverized by the Four Horsemen daily.

Only one option. So, it’s not an option.

I have to drink more and beg.

Something, somebody.

Your Solution:

Grab a pen and paper and write this down, so you won’t forget it. It’s the only effective weapon to wage war against Terror and The Stranger. I learned it too late.

Ready?

Hope. 

That’s it. Hope. Not a wish, a belief, thought, persuasion, opinion, idea or view. Those are all synonyms for “Hope without Balls”, sung to “When I Wish upon a Star.”

This isn’t Disneyland, there’s no Magic Castle and you are going to die without it.

How it All Works Out:

Real Hope
A conviction. A certainty, a sureness beyond a shadow of a doubt. A sureness, a certainty of what? It seems imperceptible, and has for a long time. Real Hope is always available, even when we have lost our conscious ability to grasp it. Where can you find it? This is the central topic in my upcoming book.

In the Author’s Note, I only ask one thing of you: The willingness to just believe that hope is possible. If you’re an active alcoholic, one who is caught in the vicious, unyielding sobriety-relapse-recommitment-sobriety cycle, this can damn well save your life. If you have no desire to quit drinking, then just keep drinking, the odds of your survival are stacked against you. A Million to one. There will come a point when you beg, pray and sob for the ability to quit drinking. I did. Hang in there.

“Even in our sleep, pain, which we cannot forget, falls drop by drop upon our heart, until in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awesome Grace of God.”

If you have had one or more rides with Terror, if you know despair intimately, and are unable to find any hint of hope, for the welfare of those still suffering, please share your thoughts on my Facebook or Twitter.

If you need a refresher on these terrible demons that plague alcoholics, read my introduction blog here.