Booze was never the problem. Drinking was a symptom of a larger problem I didn’t understand. I have come to realize I have an acute disillusionment with modernity, and a severe dissatisfaction with how the world seems to work.
Not even a “non-conformist” view of things, because that would assume an adherence to a predefined dogma of “non-conformity,” but rather a complete lack of satisfaction with what was promised versus what is delivered today. I have searched the writing of the existentialists, the nihilists, the moral realists and found little comfort other than “this is how it is.” I drank because I hated that truth.
I can’t drink because I drank so much that my liver stopped working, and if I do again it will kill me. Now, I have to just live with it. Maybe that’s the lesson: that suffering is standard, and maybe I have to take moments of joy where I can, as they are few and far between. I have no real contentment in life. My sorrows are deep, and there’s little that platitudes can solve.
I’m just trying to understand why I drank so much, for so long.