Wednesday 12th October 1999
Dear Diary,
I'm afraid I have been drinking, and so this entry is unlikely to end up making much sense. I fear my handwriting may be a little illegible anyway. There is something wonderfully numbing about alcohol, both mentally and physically. As I write, my face feels less real. More like a cushion. Does that make any sense? I began drinking tonight on a whim. I am alone in my room and have pulled out a bottle of vodka and taken shots – enough to leave me suitably intoxicated. I am reminded most nostalgically of the times in my youth when I'd drink and drink to the point of harm, and although I am older and my surroundings are different, I fear that a similar motive was behind my excessive drinking tonight. What is the motive? Curiosity. Emotional pain. An inability to cope with life that usually manifests itself in the control of food.
It is pleasing and happy to be so drunk. It feels as though there is a thick winter duvet enveloping me, cushioning me. Allowing me to ignore and suppress the more difficult aspects of living. I am trying to be eloquent. Perhaps I am succeeding? Perhaps my brain has been hijacked by the vodka and is spewing the kind of nonsense that I would not like to associate myself with. It is hard to tell, being so wonderfully, comfortably drunk as I am. I keep having to correct my spelling and grammar as I go – what you read is no doubt scrupulously edited, as you can probably deduce from the many crossings out which litter the page.
I don't really know what I am trying to say here, I just felt as though I needed to document this curious act of mine – to sit alone for some hours in my room in University College and drink until the room around me begins to move of its own accord. What does it mean? Am I reading too much into it? Is it not normal to enjoy the sensation of numbing and comfort so much? Will I ever live a life free from numbing caused by damage to the self? I should take myself off to bed.
Sherlock Holmes
x