My Final Alcoholic Descent

My eyes blinked open. Before I could distinguish 3:07am from the blurry-red glow on my bedside table, a paralyzing wave of panic washed over me. A bucket of ice water thrown in my face would have been a more peaceful wakeup. Again! I had failed again! The Pit, as I called it, was more dark, deep, lonely, inescapable and depressing than ever. I had to start another week — another Monday morning — without a shred of pride or self esteem.

Once again, as I had in the middle of many nights before, I woke my wife, Sheri, in a panic. She was painfully used to the drill. She assured me that nothing had happened. I’d merely had a couple too many beers. We hadn’t had an argument. I hadn’t harmed the children or shown hostility toward my wife. Instead, I had sulked around looking sad, then gone to bed without saying goodnight.

Sheri’s words did nothing to slow my racing thoughts of utter self-loathing. I might have spared my family emotional distress, but I had suffered yet another complete emotional collapse myself. I wanted to be dead.

Sundays were a slow, despicable descent from a calm and joyful place to the gates of hell. Sheri is the children’s minister at our church, so skipping Sunday morning service is not an option for the Salis Six. I enjoy church. It is as close as my mind comes all week to a place of peace. I can’t work or empty the dishwasher…