I don’t know what I find fun. I couldn’t tell you even with a gun pointed to my head. The absence of alcohol brought estrangement from myself. For years, alcohol was the de facto response to almost any situation in my life revolving around how I lived, how I hung out with people, and how I dealt with inner turmoil and emotions – it distanced me from my own ability to feel and steady myself.
I had trained myself to drink, and let whichever person it brought out follow every whim of the party. I found it didn’t really matter that much what the setting was – only that everybody had to drink with me. Even a single person abstaining from alcohol became a mirror to reflect my often absurd behavior, so brittle and foolish at its core it couldn’t withstand this sort of inspection.
The experience was one of being out of touch. Of not knowing or recognizing what was enjoyable or funny, and only acting out this shallow reflection of my personality – intoxicated and distant from any real feeling.
It is an odd thing, this inner dissidence, as I am also the only person I cannot escape. My own company becomes unbearable because I am not comfortable with myself. If anything, I would’ve thought I’d be much more aware of my own nature by now, but come every opportunity to actually shake hands with my own emotions or experience, I’ve stepped back into the shadows and let the alcohol take the spotlight. I’ve effectively dodged getting to know me for forty years straight – quite an accomplishment if you think about it.