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I still don’t know, today, if that hunger originated within the family or if it was something I was simply born with. In the end I don’t suppose it matters. You get your comfort where you can.
It’s the equation we all lived by, every single alcoholic I know: Discomfort+Drink=No Discomfort. The mathematics of self-transformation. “It turned me into someone I liked.”
I guess that’s the way alcoholism works. You know and you don’t know. Or, more accurately, you know and the part of you that wants no part of this knowledge immediately slips into gear, sliding the fear into a new category. You wake up in the morning and—presto!—it’s reclassified: a little problem with drinking, something you’ll take care of when you’re less depressed.
