Well, I’m embarked. I unconsciously started yesterday, but I didn’t really realize it until this morning, so I’m calling this Day One.
I was listening to some podcast — I can’t remember what it was – and they were talking about a month’s significance as an indicator of personal change. The expert type who was talking said that when people embark on a course of behavior modification (dieting, exercise, quitting smoking – whatever), the first shift in actual tendencies happens at 21 days, so a month is a very good marker in monitoring their progress.
This year has marked serious change in my life. That’s the word, right? Everything I’ve ever done in my life, good, bad, industrious, lazy, smart, stupid, cruel, kind – everything has left a far deeper mark on me than I knew. By way of further proof that there is indeed a creator, and she’s a mean bastard, it is demonstrably true that our darker deeds take deeper root.
It is also true that in each new moment the world begins anew, that we are free artists in the creation of our lives, and it may even be true that whatever we wish to change in ourselves will take root with care and time.
Say, 21 days.
Not to put too fine a point on it, early this year I discovered I am a crazy motherfucker – that’s the clinical diagnosis, that’s the word from trained professionals, that’s the wrinkle in the subplot. I don’t think I can uncrazy in 21 days, but what I’m after is quite a bit more manageable – at least I hope it is:
I want to quit getting drunk every single night.
It’s not insomnia, at least not the way I usually hear about insomnia. After, what, 25 years as a road musician, the vast majority of them spent driving from 1 one night stand to the next, a superpower I developed long ago was the ability to pretty much fall asleep anywhere, anytime. For I am Sleep Man.
The problem, as my madness increased, as the malfunction stared spreading through my whole system, was STAYING asleep. Two or three hours, and boing! – eyes open, brain churning, anxiety gripping me like a python, shutting off air, coherent thought, and of course all hope of a good night’s sleep.
There’s a reason torturers quickly turn to sleep deprivation – we all know how debilitating it can be, and when it’s unrelieved, night after night – well, I started to go super double extra crazy. The clinical term for a Sleep Deprived Crazy Motherfucker is Fuckin Nutball, I believe – I’d have to look it up, though.
So sometime prior to actually talking to a shrink, I started tentatively drinking. I’ve never been much of a drinker – really, I came to despise the drug as a musician working (mostly) in bars – what a shitty drug! What an irresponsible high, what a crappy after affect, and what a liver-eater!
But when I do drink, yes, when I do, I like wine and I especially like dark, complicated beer – all those wonderful ales, man. Delicious. So I started drinking a large complicated beer-type thing kinda regularly, and I noticed, gradually: hey, I slept all night! Maybe it wasn’t the greatest 8 hours of REM ever, but 5 or 6 hours of uninterrupted sleep after what I’d been getting? Heaven.
So I kept drinking. Gradually it got to be every night. Then I started raising my dosage, because I discovered I like being drunk – not really drunk, you understand, but definitely high…
As time (and therapy) progressed, I was really getting pretty devoted to it, and I was steadily working my way through the astonishing variety of drugs breweries around the world offer to the dedicated. And in the last 2 or 3 months, I was literally drinking a couple of pints of high-test brew every single night.
You might be thinking, that ain’t shit, or you might be thinking, jeez, that’s way too much – and you’d be right. I have lots of friends who drink considerably more than I do, but I’m a cheap and susceptible date – two pints, and I’m fucked up, Jack.
It got to the point where I was waking up in the middle of the night, not springing awake from madness, but from the profound need to pee, hahaha, and I’d have to navigate myself to the bathroom. I mean I was semi-reeling, man. And it got to the point where there were many mornings (I told you I’m a cheap date) I’d wake up still high and count on the bike ride to work to sober me up.
Mostly, it did, but do that for months and you start getting mighty sluggish…
So I quit. Yesterday.
Actually, I took a week off a couple of weeks ago. And I liked it. I missed sleeping through the night, but sharpened mental acuity was immediately evident. But when the weekend rolled around I went back to it – oh, hello, old friend, giving me a reassuring grin, making me comfortably numb and a wee bit glib.
But I knew it was time.
I really like the stuff. I love those loaf-of-bread-with-alcohol beers. I know what you’re thinking – same thing I’m thinking – when I say this, but I’m don’t think I’m an alcoholic.
I think I really liked sleeping.
21 days.
