The Chronic Hangover

Before the meeting I attended tonight, I heard a gentleman across the room talking loudly about how thankful he is not to be hungover anymore.  His comment inspired me to rewind the clock a little bit.  Currently, if I were to relapse, I would get the worst imaginable hangover, meaning I should really be hospitalized.  Going back a few years in time, however, being hungover was just part of the daily grind.  When my drinking was still somewhat controlled, I'd average around four to six beers per night, assuming I had work the next morning (otherwise, who knows how much I could knock back).  I didn't realize then, that I even got hangovers, because I felt the exact same way every day.  I was tired, my head throbbed, I was thirsty, etc.  I took ibuprofen literally every morning.  Every day was a fight, because I felt so physically ill at work.  Every day was about treating the symptoms before I could have my next drink.  I'd wake up and wash down a couple (or six) ibuprofen with a Red Bull, that I drank to compensate for the tiredness.  I smoked cigarettes back then, so I'd do that, too.  After work my first priority was to pick up beer, and repeat over and over again.  Once I managed to scrape two or three sober days together.  It was probably after doing something embarrassing like passing out in a cab with my friend, blacking out after going for drinks with my boss, or falling over drunk at a bar enough times to get my own blood all over the floor (all of which actually happened).  My (now ex) boyfriend wouldn't agree to keep beer out of the apartment at all, so I'm surprised I could last even one day with the temptation right in my face.  I hadn't realized, until those two or three days, how hungover I was on a regular basis.  I thought that life just felt that awful.  I was so used to being sick, that it felt normal.  I was so used to feeling depressed during the day, that didn't even occur to me as a side effect from drinking, because I would just drown it away in the evenings.  That (not feeling ill) was the first bit of hope I had for sobriety.  I had hit a lot of bottoms, but sober life seemed worse than anything that drinking would lead me to; even death.  Exclusively the idea that I could wake up and not feel sick.  I could go to work and not feel miserable.  I could even enjoy myself without a buzz.  I never made it past three days that entire year, but I kept trying.  I probably stayed sober for three days at least once or twice a month after that.  After a few years three turned to a week, which turned to thirty days, then ninety, then here, to a different and better life.