Ridiculous Things I’ve Done to Try Not to be Depressed
In the middle of my first period of depression, I ran away to Valencia to try and escape things that came with me (see #1). I found an unfurnished apartment, blew up an air bed and stuck some photos and memorabilia on the bare white walls and settled in. There were a lot of fitted shelves and cupboards. I bought a sofa and a fridge and considered that as much as I needed to do. My job was awful, my brain rotting. From the start, I knew I wasn’t staying long but one day I was looking through one of the cupboards and found a stash of more than half a dozen bottles of white wine, cava and champagne. I opened a bottle of white wine and started drinking.
Over the week, I kept drinking until all the cheaper bottles were finished. I didn’t touch the champagne (I kept expecting the landlord to ring the bell any second, looking for his secret alcohol stash) but I bought more wine every time I went to the supermarket. Sometimes I went to the supermarket just to buy wine. At some point I realised that this was a bad habit: my nightly crying sessions would quickly turn into hysteria when I had been drinking. It was the only time I had suicidal thoughts. I stopped.
I ran back. I got better. I went back to social drinking.
This time, I turned to alcohol early on. Never as much. A bottle or two a week at most. But this time, the effects were exaggerated. My mood, already lower than it had ever been, plummeted even further with just a glass. I kept at it. One glass a night turned into two sometimes; on the worst days three. I convinced myself it would help me sleep. I convinced myself it would numb the pain.
And then I realised what it was doing and I stopped. I’ve started again which I know I shouldn’t but I find the usual ways to justify it. Only one bottle over a week and a half and two weeks dry. There’s a bottle under my bed now. It’s unopened. It will stay that way tonight. Wine is only for the good days now.