How the Bottle Drank Me

There was a time in my life when I was an alcoholic. Generally when I share this information people look at me and my youth and instantly shake their head. How can someone so young have ever had a disease that is always given a face of age, grief, and shame? What they see are the walls I have always surrounded myself with. What they don’t see is the soul inside that screams at those walls.

I entered the state of grief when I was rejected the second time by my birth mother. I count the reunion that did not happen as our “second time” because the first feeling of rejection had to be when she left my ass on a street at the age of two years old. Is there any worse way a person can reject someone? I suppose there is, but for a two year old I imagine your reasons are insignificant in comparison. I don’t remember the pain of that day, but when I compare it to the pain I felt during her second rejection I can only imagine. I became the man in the iron mask.

I found an instant companion at the age of eighteen for my new found grief as I went to college. It was neither a she or he, but instead wore a label of the day. The numbers mattered little because we didn’t need digits to connect. All I needed was a willingness to open the cork or top and a resolve to see the deed done. I became an expert at attempting to crawl inside a bottle and in the process I began to destroy my liver. It felt great to finally feel a pain to accompany the pain I felt within.

In 2003 I returned after my failed “prodigal son” journey and resolved to up my game. I was in such a hurry to reacquaint with the bottles of my life that when I landed in Memphis, Tennessee I didn’t stop. I hit the ground running and immediately jumped in my car to drive six hours to Knoxville. Once there I was able to hide my shame from those I cared to hide it from and in the same moment I found freedom at last. I was finally free to hate myself and the happy ending I would never have. I was ready to die.

At the age of 23 I was a full-fledged alcoholic. Some people will immediately ask me with scrutiny in their eyes “what do you mean you were an alcoholic? All kids drink in college and in their youth.” That is very true. Many kids do drink in college and normally their goal is shared. They are out to have fun or to release their stress. Drinking for me became an afterthought. An automatic-thought and action I would do daily and sometimes hourly. I woke up and had a scotch before the breakfast I didn’t eat. I went to bed forcing myself not to count how many it took to get me to sleep. It normally took enough that I couldn’t count them anyway.

I became the type of person I despised. I would walk into Joe’s Liquor Store on Poplar and buy the cheapest, rawest pint I could afford. Roughly four dollars and fifty-three cents later I would crack that bottle open while putting my car into reverse to head home. There was nothing cool about it. I just didn’t give a fuck. And that was how the bottle began to drink me back.

-Opinionated Man

Jason C. Cushman



23 thoughts on “How the Bottle Drank Me

  1. Haven’t been here to read your blog in a while… thought I had signed up for notifications, but maybe not. Now I have. Anyway, you know I love you to the moon and back and am so glad to share our life journeys, and so thankful to be your adoptive mom. Your readers might like my post about quitting drinking… on March 8 it will be six months since my last drink:

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I can’t “like” this, though I really appreciate you sharing it and I do like how you told your story. I have had so many direct dealings over the years with alcohol, alcoholics, alcoholism and the effects of it that sometimes discussion about it hurts, pains and grieves me.

    As usual, your honesty is evident and I hope it encourages honesty in many others.

    Thank you for being relentlessly YOU!!!!


    Liked by 1 person

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  5. Respect, Jason. Respect for getting yourself through all this each day and making something out of all that sh*t for your lovely family, for yourself. Respect for being so open about it, so people who resonate with similar ordeals can can’t inspired.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. I think our body remembers. I think it remembers the feeling of being 2 years old and left. And no, nothing compares to that. That is horrific. So to be turned away again by the person who abandoned you, I mean who the fuck does she think she is??!!!! She has a son willing, wanting to meet her even after the crime of abandonment. Unbelievable. I don’t think coping has an age, and anyone who thinks it does cannot see the true souls of people.

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  8. Sounds to me, your troubles started when you start trying to find out WHY you were abandoned by your birthmother, and, why is a question of the past, it can only keep you tied up and bound by being abandoned by someone who should have loved you instead, and, if you keep heading down this path, you will end up, getting deeper and deeper, trying, to figure out exactly WHY you were abandoned, when sometimes, those god DAMN adult counterparts were just, WAY too immature to be parents to their own young, and you have to keep on telling youself, that you did NOTHING wrong, that it wasn’t your fault, until that becomes, ETCHED in your freakin’ mind, stop wondering WHY things happened, and just accept that it had, it’ll make your life a HELL of a lot easier for you, because I’d wondered WHY things happened to me god KNOWS how many times before, and, it wasn’t until i’d stopped asking WHY, did things all start to fall into their rightful places in my life.


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