[quote]CopingMechanism wrote:
Last year I was living in Sydney. I was held up in some crumbling, cock-roach infested, half-way house ****-hole just outside of Chinatown.
I was saving some money for an extended road-trip I wanted to take up the east coast. I’d flew half-way round the world in an attempt to escape the rat-race, but at that moment a’ll I’d done was trade one drab urban existence for another.
A shitty week at a shitty job at was coming to a close. Delay in getting paid, unsecured hours for next week and a few aggravated words away from a fistfight with co-workers had left me riled, dejected and uncomfortable. I needed a blowout.
Now I’d cut myself pretty close to the bone as it was to save cash - cheap digs, rice and noodle diet and all but essential purchases. So when it came to getting ****ed up, you weren’t left with a whole lot of options.
Now, there’s this cheapo white wine that you can easily procure in Oz that has been ominously nick-named ‘goon’. It’s of the bag-in-the-box variety of wine and once the plastic bladder has been drained, the bag can be inflated to make an improvised pillow. The aboriginal word for sleep is ‘goon’ As such, it is the weapon of choice for the unfortunate souls who find themselves on the street. Providing both temporary mental allieviation and physical practicality. At two dollars a litre you can imagine the quality of this stuff. Fucking rank would be an understatement.
So Friday night I crack open a box. The usual drink to forget your troubles bollocks. The evenings procedingss were not particularly eventful in themselves. The usual broke, back-packer nonesense. Just me and the house mates sat around talking ****. Everyone’s conversation got a bit louder and more animated. A few plates and glasses get smashed accidentaly. No biggie. A conspicuous lack of females. Sh1t.
I get through at least a couple of boxes.
I don’t remeber retiring to my room or at what time.
I wake up at midday and I feel…okay. “That’s strange” I tell myself. Normally when drinking to excess I feel it the next day and I could remember my volume from the night before. I get up take a shower, put on some coffee sit on the couch and start to think about how to salvage the day, as I have seemed to have dodged a hangover.
Then it hits.
My head starts to feel heavy.
A vague numbness at first building to what feels like someone taking a fistful of shattered glass and mashing it violently against my temples.
The first flickers of suspicion that the day might be a write-off enthrall.
The shakes begin soon after. What the ****. I’ve never ****ing shook before. I lift my left hand and see it like trembling like a parkinson’s patient. I make a conscious effort to stop it, but can’t.
Suddenly a cold flush seems to rise up from nowhwre . Teeth start chattering audibly
The realisation that lying down might be a good idea comes to mind. I endeavour to make it back to my room.
The hallway spins as I stumble down the hall, bouncing off the walls.
I collaspe and curl up in the foetal position.
All of a sudden this maelstrom of contorted thoughts invades my cerebral lobe. Imagine every negative feeling felt and every jolt of self-doubt combined. Every dissapointment endured and every pain experienced, all coalesced into one. A feeling that can only be described as a viscious, anxiety ridden, wave of misery.
I bury my face in the pillow and try and facilitate previous hangover and depressive coping mechanisms:
Rrepeat self-mantra’s:
“It’ll all be over soon mate”
“It’ll pass”
“It wont last forever”
“Just thoughs, Just thoughts”
“Think positive, happy thoughts”
The tide does not abate.
Oh Fuck. Oh Fuck.
Ex-girlfriend. Parents arguing. “We wish to contact you regarding a payment…” Dad Yelling. Rejection. Past. Present. Future. 30 marks out of 100. Boss. Mum crying. “Unfortunatley due to popular demand, the position…”. Dead-end. Morning Traffic. Rain-sodden clothes. Signal failure.
Stop. Please. Oh God.
I fade in and out of tiredness. Pillow wrapped round my head, praying it stops, before I finally pass out.
Awake to darkness. Fumble blindly for phone on floor. 7:15pm. Laying in bed for another half-hour. My throat croaks and I writh with nausea. Despite feeling this way I am compelled by some unknown reason to get up. I need to feel something. Give myself some sort of stimulus to distract myself from how miserable I feel. Anything.
I hit the streets. Stepping out the door the greasy waft of the dozen or so restaurants and vendors in the area hit me and I double over supporting myself against the wall. However there is nothing to vomit. I steady myself and move along.
Walking along dimly-lit city back streets and buzzing intersections, speeding cars pass by. The lights of Anzac brige light up like a beacon as I make my towards it. I reach the foor of the bridge; taking in the cool, salty breeze.
A week earlier, jogging across the bridge as the sun was beginning to set in the afternoon. Very pleasant. Now in darkness the setting seems a tad more sombre. Looking out across from the top, lights canvassed across the city-scape burn annoymously. I felt alone. Peering over the side. The murkiness below. Height Indistinguishable in this darkness. Black sky and water below merged into one. It stares back. So. Do I do it? Step out into the void?
No.
Not today.
Took me about a week to feel right again. I never did drink that goon again. Never went on that road trip either.
[/quote]
shit. nothing worse than the super depressing hangover.
i know the goon. horrid stuff. never knew the reason it was called goon until your post. funny thing is, im in korea now, and they sell the exact same shit in some cool little chill out bar i know. $4USD a bloody glass. think its like $12AUS a box over there, right? had to laugh.