One of the many sneaky things I would find myself doing was disposing of the beer bottles. They didn’t take long to accumulate, especially when you were as much of a heavy drinker as I once was. My floor would be littered with them; I had bags filled with empties stacked in my wardrobe, a heap of bottles shoved into the shed out back, and more stashed away in my car. Even now I still come across the odd beer can tucked away where nobody would think to look. These secret stashes caused me a great deal of anxiety, because I knew my bedroom had become a battlefield of stubbies and there was always the risk my parents would discover my little secret. My folks would take advantage of cleaning my room with a fine-tooth comb whenever I went out or was admitted to hospital. They never got angry—they were simply worried and concerned.
I couldn’t use the recycling bin because they would clearly be noticed, so I had nowhere to put the bottles other than in other people’s bins or the recycle cages at the local footy field. This had to be done either when everyone was out or very early in the morning before anyone stirred. The hardest part was collecting them late at night and doing my best to avoid that awful glass-on-glass clatter as I transferred the rubbish into bags. I would tiptoe out through the laundry door, quietly load the car and drive off. Job completed. What a relief!
It wouldn’t be long before I collected more empties and went through the whole routine again. It was an ongoing cycle. If I made a dollar for every can or bottle I disposed of, I’d be a wealthy man. I am so glad that I’m sober now. No more empties to throw away, no more worrying about my driving limit, and I earn more respect from my folks when I’m clear-headed. It only takes a month or so of sobriety for them to see that I might really be on the mend this time. I’m saving money, I can write blog posts without seeing double, and the absence of beer means I’m finally giving my medication a fair chance to work. It was crazy—I used to wash down a handful of pills with beer, so I never allowed them to do what they should. Now I can actually feel the antidepressant starting to help. Alcohol is a depressant, so mixing the two was cancelling out all the pills I was swallowing. There are so many positives from giving it up.
My parents aren’t stupid; to an extent they knew what I was up to, and they can almost always tell when I’ve been drinking, even if they don’t say anything. These are just a few bad memories. I don’t have to worry about the simple things I used to take for granted—like driving safely and keeping the old folks happy. This video strayed off the topic, but that’s okay. That’s how I write.