Four Months Later…

I watch the fight over and over again, feeling a huge amount of self-hatred overcoming me. After my drunken night in the bar and my talk with Gabe, I got serious. I took it easy, but I pushed myself just enough during physical therapy to get myself back on my feet as quickly as possible. I went to all my doctor appointments, and I listened to what the guy had to say. I would go for walks for a while so that I was still doing some form of exercise to ensure that I could bounce back quicker, and soon my walks turned into runs. Not being able to constantly work out and not having any matches did allow me to spend some quality time with Brandi and do some of the cheesy wedding preparation stuff. I’ll admit, I actually enjoyed some of it. It was a bit of a distraction. Because I was not super involved in the boxing world at that time, I had no idea that my comments about female boxers had gone viral. I’ll have to do something about that sooner or later, but right now that is the last thing on my mind. What’s bothering me right now is the two matches I’ve lost since returning.

Two. Fucking. Losses. Two! Un-fucking-believable. And not to big name players like Donte, but to up and coming professionals. My most recent loss had been a knockout in the third round. I’ve never been knocked out before Donte, and I’ve certainly never lost that early on. The third round. The third fucking round! How? How? My body is fine now. My injuries from my fight with Donte don’t hurt at all now. So what is causing me to lose these matches? What is causing me to suck so much? I’ve never had this problem before! I watch the clip again on my television in my den. I can hear Brandi pacing in the next room over; she is worried about me, and she probably should be. I rewind again, and I rematch the knock-out. Three losses in a row including my match with Donte. What is happening to me?

Brandi finally makes her entrance into the den. She is supposed to be staying with one of her friends tonight; they’re going to go get fitted for their bridesmaid dresses. She’s worried about leaving me alone with the way I’m acting. I take a breath as she enters the room and forces a smile. I chew my gum, smacking a bit. “Hey baby, you getting ready to go?” I say as chipper as I can.

“You know, I was thinking, I don’t really have to go. I mean, they already have their dresses. It’s just a fitting-” she starts to make excuses.

“Brandi, I’m fine,” I say and stand, smiling. I embrace her and kiss her lips. “Don’t worry about me, baby. Really. I’m just pissed off about the match; that’s all. I’ll get over it. And I won’t go to the bar. I’m staying right here.”

I can tell she is thinking. I give her another kiss to break her concentration. “Fine,” she finally says, “But please, just… stay out of trouble, all right?”

I nod and send her out the door. As soon as she is gone, I spit out the mint gum I had been chewing and flop back down on the couch, pulling my flask out from between the cushions. I know I should stop, but it’s like I can’t help it. The bottle just calls to me. I finish off the whiskey, and then I head to the kitchen and pour some of Brandi’s wine. I pour water into the bottle so that she won’t notice because she’s been keeping an eye on me. I finish off two glasses worth and then go searching for the tequila I had hidden in the light fixture above the dining room table. There is about half of it left, so I go for it.

Now I feel sick. I decide to need to go to bed before I do something stupid, so I hide the now empty bottle and head upstairs to bed. I trip once, but thankfully I don’t wind up falling down the stairs. That’s the last thing I need right now. I need help. I know I do, but I won’t ask for it.

Eventually, I manage to make it to the bedroom, and I crawl into bed. I am so thankful to be in bed; I wrap the blankets tight and groan a bit. I can’t believe I am this drunk… again! Why do I keep doing this to myself? Seriously, why do I drink every single time I am alone? As soon as Brandi leaves the house, I tend to sneak off to the bar or drown myself with my hidden stash. This is my life now. If I’m not training or at a match, I’m drunk. I sort of wish that Brandi had stayed because then I wouldn’t have gotten this drunk… I don’t think. I’m getting really good at hiding it now. Really good. Whenever she’s not around, I’m drunk. When she is around there is about a fifty percent chance that I will find a way to drink anyways. I can’t stand it. I don’t want to be this way, but I just can’t seem to find any other way to deal.

I just don’t know what to do. I pull the blanket up over me, but I instantly get a gurgling feeling in the pit of my stomach. I have to throw up. I jump up out of bed, but I don’t make it to the bathroom. Fuck. There’s a mess on the carpet. Brandi is going to find out I’ve been drinking again, and she’s going to be pissed. I got to get this cleaned up.

I get the carpet cleaner and scrub like crazy. By some matter of luck, I actually manage to hide the mess. Thank God.

I pass out on the floor, never making it to bed this time. I wake up the next morning with a hangover, and I coax it away with a Bloody Mary at the bar down the street. I had promised Brandi I wouldn’t go to the bar, but there was not any alcohol left in the house the next morning with the exception of her wine… and I don’t want her to find out I’m watering her wine down. I don’t want her to know I’m trying to be that sneaky, and if I water it down anymore, she’ll definitely notice.

I only have the one Bloody Mary, but I stop by the liquor store on my way back home. I hide the drinks around the house. My flask in the couch, some tequila in the light fixture, some vodka under the bed, and several other hiding places. Why can’t I stop? Seriously, why am I doing this? I’ve never had a drinking problem before. Am I really that messed up in the head from my losses? Gabe was right; I’m acting childish. It’s like I just can’t cope with… not being the best. Am I really that vain? I spend the rest of the day sitting around the house, trying my best to resist getting any of the alcohol I had hidden. I tell myself, I’ll need it next time. Brandi will be home soon, and it’s the only way I am able to stop myself. I can’t stand this version of me. I hate it. I just want to stop, but I can’t.

I’m supposed to be getting married soon. I love Brandi, and she deserves so much better than this. She deserves a guy who can hold his own. Someone who doesn’t drink himself silly. Someone who can actually win a fucking boxing match! Why is this happening? What is wrong with me? Why can’t I just stop? I want to stop!

Someone help me…