reply to post by spartacus699
Alcoholism has nothing to do with the stressors which cause a person to drink, but the amount that they drink, and continue to drink to the point
where it does them lasting physical damage. That could be neurological damage, where receptors in the brain actually become dysfunctional on a
permanent basis, or indeed damage to the organs which process the liquid you intake, like the obvious liver diseases associated with drinking heavily.
Generally speaking though, although I would be the first to admit that I have been pretty damned drunk at times in my life (kneeling down at a busy
intersection, in the no mans land, and screaming "I AM THE HUMAN BOLLARD!" is not an activity undertaken by sober persons) I find it tedious to
drink to escape. The simple fact is it does not really work for me. I drink because I like the taste of ale, and I like the taste of rum, and God help
me I also like the taste of a pint of mixed spirits if I am honest (because I am slightly mad).
This feeling you have about wanting to go build a yurt in the middle of some woods or something... I share the heck out of that man. I have lived in
a town by the sea all my life, a built up seaside resort town, famous in the early 1900s as a tourist destination. Its pretty vacuous at the best of
times around here. The paperwork you need to complete in order to justify your existence to the authorities, the forms and bills you fill in and pay,
the necessity to keep a roof over your head...its all BS anyway. I was homeless for a while, and although I had no choice in the matter at the time,
looking back, I realise I have NEVER been more free than I was back then.
I have been thinking for a while that it would be awesome to go and live outdoors properly, just a bergen full of gear on my back, and a forest or a
cave or something for shelter. But living that way would not just alienate me from my people, my friends, but it would also basically be running away.
See, life sets you up to get crushed, because life is a ten tonne bastard. As much fun as I could have hunting my food rather than paying for it, it
would still be running away, rather than facing the arch bastard down, smashing my boots into its gonads repeatedly, stamping on its face, and taking
out its bodily organs as trophies.
You need to get some proper, focused anger going. Summon all your reserves of rage, and focus them into the task of taking life by the scruff of the
neck, tearing out its spinal cord, and smashing the remains to bloody pulp. Its much more satisfying in the long run I think.