He stood there, dumbfounded. His expression said it all, “If I could control it, don’t you think I would?” But there would be nothing anybody could do for him: He was physically addicted to alcohol and no amount of coercive tactics would change that. Still, she carried her suitcases out the door and loaded them into her car.
“I warned you,” she said. “If you didn’t go to your meetings and took one more drink, I’d be out the door.”
“I need help, can’t you see that? Maybe the meetings aren’t for me. Please, don’t leave. I want to stop drinking, but I can’t. I wish you could see that.”
“Believe me; I see all I need to see. I see how much you love your damn bottle and how much more it means to you,” she said and walked out the door, leaving him for what appeared to be the last time.
He stood there for a time, staring at the front door. He had an impulse to run after her and throw himself in front of her car. But he had a stronger impulse to grab his stashed Cuervo bottle and chug down whatever liquid he had left. So, that’s what he did.
He rummaged through his closet, throwing off the clothes he used to hide the tequila. He really did want to run after her and leave the bottle alone, but something drove him. It was the same something that kept him drawn to the bottle. It was the same something that told him, “You’re no good. You’re nothing but a run-down drunk.” He tried to root it out of his thoughts, but that something was way too strong for him; it controlled every aspect of his life. He wanted to be good. He wanted to be able to keep her home. But every time she threatened to leave him, the something that kept him drinking only got stronger and stronger.
“If you drink again, I’m going to leave you. You’ll have and be nothing without me,” were her exact words. But he already believed he was nothing. He already believed she was too good for him. The only way he could keep from being reminded of his worthlessness was to drink until he was unconscious.
While she sped away, true to her threat, he found his bottle of Cuervo. It was half-full. He threw off the cap and poured the tequila down with hardly even one gulp. “She’s right; I’m not good enough for her,” was what the something repeated over and over again. As the tequila did its job, he faded into a new blackness. It was an abyss from which he would not return. Her threats proved true: She would never see him again…