Poem: I Can't Drink.
A poem about my relationship with alcohol, but it's not in the way one might think.
As an autistic person, I have a peculiar relationship with alcohol— fixated by the idea of making it work, but undeniably being disgusted by the taste of it.
And beyond that, I never understood that generally speaking, most people don’t actually care for the taste of whatever they’re drinking. They’re doing it to get drunk. To maybe do it in a social setting with friends, or by themselves when they’re depressed and angry with the world.
This isn’t to say I haven’t drank before (I have), and sometimes I have been able to bring myself to enjoy it. But with alcohol it is an uphill battle. Just because I enjoy it one time doesn’t mean I will the next.
I like drinking things which feel good to drink, which is why I consume a lot of soda, energy drinks, or juice. But alcohol? Never. With that thought process out of the way, let’s get into the poem.
I Can’t Drink
It’s 4am, the bottle lays shattered, Shards spilled all over the ground. A pair of legs hung from the bedside– Shaking, not quite out yet. I’m not drunk. The body wobbles, nearly toppling Over as it sits up from the mattress. Hands drawn, rubbing against eyes; Attempting to make sense of a Headache which refuses to leave. Just one more. Standing moves into a free fall, Head first into a retching bin left out. It was the only attempt to make, To find booze, before it all goes. I’m sorry mom. A dream concurring, one that I’d Never will myself to be flung free from, Wondering if this will be the drink Where I finally become an alcoholic. If only I could. 10am greets this body like a warm hug, And a head clearer than a blue sky. Those legs get up, moving through A room free of glass and debris. Next time. A loose promise, held together only By the thought of trying it again– A dream broken by the taste of Knowing it doesn’t speak to me, Leaving it to someone else instead. As it should be.
To write this piece, I had to get myself into the headspace of, what if I was an alcoholic? What if this was an issue I was struggling with, then as the poem went on, transforming that part into a dream sequence.
Where none of this is actually happening. It’s a nightmare in which I don’t want to live. It ends on me going about my day, content to no longer be thinking about the idea at hand.
It’s okay to not drink, and in fact, it’s healthier to be sober. If you ever find yourself not wanting to drink in a social situation, that’s okay. Order some cola, or tea, or water, and just be you.
The world is weird, and everything feels dark all the time. But even if it gets depressing and sad, I can count on knowing Alcohol just isn’t my vice. (Even if sometimes I wish I could just get drunk and drown it out). I’m grateful I’m the way I am.
As someone who has wrestled with the stuff before (and has family members who didn't quite win their battle with it), this piece did a very good job of capturing the allure, but also the broken promise, of such things like alcohol.
It's easy to sit back, clear-headed, and understand why it's not good for you. It's harder when you're in its clutches, to tell yourself that you don't need it. It's like it changes your brain chemistry, like it had a mind of its own that overrides yours.
It's better to just keep it at arm's length or never touch it at all. You can have control over it, but the scary thing is that it can just as easily have control over you. I feel like your piece here captured both sides of that equation well.
I'm not a big drinker either. It really isn't my jam. I have champagne occasionally.
You can be social & not drink. You can choose to not drink. The pressure could be more helpful, to be more compassionate...not drinking like everyone else.