an ode to drunken people

It is done,
I am done,
We are done - the glass, the spirit - the relationship.

It is over. I am not sorry about it. I am glad, very glad that I have had to recognise the destructive nature that underlies you, your character and your being.

I am sorry that you only feel self-pity and have not the strength to accept those failings that make my life a misery. We have spoken, you have acknowledged my pain. Yet you persist in pouring salt into a wound that was healing.

I cannot,
I will not, and
I shan’t accept that pain - any longer.

I will not accept apologies or excuses. These things do not happen because of alcohol, these things are magnified by alcohol. The rotten seeds are always there, those seeds that each one of us carry around with us. Your pain, issues and problems are not particular nor special nor, in any way, unique to you.

Your problems do not make you special.

Your problems do not justify your behaviour when you are drunk.

Your problems need to be dealt with. I am not your therapist. I am not your psychologist. Deal with them but without me.

You are living a lie when you apologise. You are incapable of dealing with your behaviour when you have had too much to drink. You are an unpleasant, embarrassing, provoking drinker who seems to enjoy embodying those most horrid of characteristics. But it’s the alcohol, as you claim; it isn’t me, as you claim. You live the lie.

The next morning brings the sweet tranquility of alcoholic induced blackout. The memories are gone, the lull between drinks returns. But the memories of those you have hurt in your drunken state remains. The pain caused remains with those around you, those whom you would never want to hurt.

They can’t, they don’t, and they won’t forget.

Memories and experiences of those around you, the people you have hurt, their memories linger, collecting, and then begin to fester. These memories bury themselves deep into the minds and souls of those hurt.

You might well manage to behave when in public, hence the uncomprehending stares of my friends when I say I am through. I do not mind. I have experienced your behaviour as soon as the door closes behind us. We are home, you feel safe. I know the nastiness that engulfs you then. There is only one outlet for this. Only one sink to capture and absorb this.


Perhaps … perhaps had you spent more time protecting yourself as I now protect myself, you might have been a better person, a responsible person. The failure to look after oneself leads to hurting others, embarrassing oneself and losing friends.

You might well now:

or you could just leave. Leave with your head up high, your dignity intact and your baggage in hand. Emotional, physical and metaphorical baggage, all of it.

Goodbye and please do not ever contact me again.