Sometimes CTRL+Z* Doesn't Work

Sam here....

 

So I'm pretty happy these days, that has been established, but there's a lingering sadness I've cut out, but don't want to forget. This post is more for my sanity, and a way that I can think about the situation and look back upon it, and remember how I felt.

Simon is my brother. Yes, my parents made brutal choices with naming their two sons Sam & Simon, but there you go. Simon is 21 (22?) and an alcoholic.

It's funny, I found an old phone in the house a little while ago, and while flicking through, I came across a calendar note, dated 22th February 2003.

"First time drinking :-)"

This is where it snowballed from. Simon has never been socially comfortable, nor has he been able to feign confidence like most of us. Because not everybody is truly confident. It's a front to stop us getting ripped to shreds by other people, looking to humiliate someone weaker, so nobody notices their imperfections.

So brother realises that the world is rosy when he's had a few too many lagers, and that life happens to be brilliant, because he's confident, 'the lads' think he is some sort of idol, who can drink the most.

The lads. This irritates me to no end. It's such a testosterone filled, men's world, chain the woman to the cooker' idea. The lads.

Simon has brains. Don't get me wrong. He doubled my scores in the leaving cert, he was doing biochemistry and micro science, both promising fields. Until he realised that he could skip college during the day, drink all night and skip college the next day. He failed, dropped out, and began working in a betting shop. And did so for a year.

Spending every ill-earned penny on drink. He had no savings, no education. Nothing. But did he care? No. He just drank.

My parents. I begin to feel bad for the ol' strumpet. Both my mothers parents were alcoholics, her brother is a recovering alcoholic. And now her oldest son. She cried, pleaded, demanded, begged him to curb his drinking. But he couldn't stop.

Oh, he wasn't the one with the problem. Oh no. It wasn't his fault.

Something had to give.

Last new years day, my parents collected him from a *Garda station. He had been drinking in his shameless local pub, and collapsed. He owed everyone money. He was sick. Poor. Broken. All his friends didn't help him, an onlooker called an ambulance and the police.

He arrived home, and broke down. I was sent upstairs at this point because it was a closed doors conversation, but I know he confessed to being an alcoholic. And this was the start. The start of resuming the happy family life.

A councillor was employed, to help him control his addiction. There were minor slip-ups, but aside from that, it looked as if things would be OK.

This new years. He arrived him from work on new years eve, with a box of Stella (an icky larger/beer). The parents were away.

He had been sober for 6 months. 6 months. 24 weekends had passed, where he didn't go out, get blind drunk and ring me at 5AM, hurling abuse at me for not getting up to answer the door. He didn't dare ring the bell in case a parent got up to answer.

And now. He arrives home, 2 days later with another box. another 24 bottles. And I know he will drink all of them.

I just needed to write that down for myself.

 

 

 

 

*For those that don't get the title, CTRL+Z is the 'undo' function for Windows.

**Garda. From Garda Siochana, the Irish police. It translates to 'Peaceful Guards'. Their unarmed.