Thanks to A.J. for asking me to fill in this week. My cartoons and photos are here.

In 2011, I rapidly and cruelly left my marriage in Boston and drove to my parents’ house in northern Illinois to squat for a few months before moving into Chicago. I was eight years into my drinking career, going through a couple of bottles of wine per night, always having a clear liquor on-hand. Later, my parents described me as being “moody” during those few months, but perhaps they were used to it since my hangovers made it seem as if I hadn’t changed since age 17, when I last lived there.

I was able to work remotely and traveled frequently back to Austin, where I’d extend visits for a week or two to stay with my new girlfriend. She and I drank plenty together, and I was able to share the fun version of alcoholic Ben while hiding the sad version elsewhere. I’d found a new person to hide from, and I didn’t have to feel unwanted.

One afternoon, I searched my parents’ house for pain relief, but my mom is not one to use medicine for any reason. I rooted through the bathroom drawers and found a half-full Bayer bottle that expired in 1986. I knew they weren’t dangerous, but it still seemed unlikely they’d retain any power, and accepted I’d have to drive to White Hen.

This week, I’m trying to get my prescription medications in order. I was prescribed Lexapro for anxiety and Naltrexone to curb alcohol cravings in 2019 by a psychiatrist, a few months before I went to rehab, but only pretended to take them. Instead of throwing pills out, I would put them into Ziploc bags and ball them into hiking socks, thinking I’d start onboarding both when I was “ready,” but I was afraid they’d interfere with my drinking, and the peace I felt from drinking was the only peace I knew.