I had the conscience of an assassin, and was haunted by a vague sense of enormous wickedness. A single dram of whisky, as large as a becher, settled upon my lips then another and another. Within seconds, or so it seemed, I was in the center of a hurricane. The liquor was swirling and twisting in the spiraling drafts, calling out to me, as if it was longing to come inside of me. Then I heard what sounded like the voice of the lord, echoing through the space between my ears. Was that likely, our heavenly father trying to take me on a fascinating journey, so unique, of exploration and excellence, to our spiritual home that lies at the heart of great natural beauty, managed in harmony by seducing me with the 1824 Series of Macallan’s greatest strengths? Was that likely, natural gold colour and sherry oak, at one and the same time? Even possible? As I considered it, a second glass reverberated through my quivering lips, making the questions obsolete. Quaffing on, gulp by gulp. The room seemed to be getting narrower. To one side, the great beige walls of the lobby, to the other, an abrupt chasm of chaos and disorder, the light slowly fading away.

Another growling shot of Macallan’s, then a snap of darkness, silhouetting the black figures sitting on the bench. I tried to switch on the lights, feeling my feet struggling to keep a grip on the marble tiles, slippery floor, as my body lurched into the spiteful headwind. And always the shriek of the heel of my Stacy Adam’s, struggling back and forth, back and forth. My eyes had fogged up, my nose itched with the smell of blood, of Macallan fumes, of the wet tiles beneath my feet. I leaned forward and wiped the blood from my nose with my pharaoh Egyptian silk shirt sleeve again. It made no difference. I knew I had to find a place to rest, but my eyes kept getting heavy, it was too hard to see, just an endless expanse of cold silence. Because alcohol abuse is such a common problem, it is important to recognize the danger signals. The path from a social drinker to a problem drinker to an alcoholic is often subtle.

Alcohol is the common name for ethyl alcohol, the intoxicating element in fermented and distilled liquors. Contrary to popular belief, alcohol is not a stimulant, it is a depressant. Small amounts of alcohol reduce inhibitions and produce feelings of relaxation and euphoria. Larger amounts cause ever-greater impairment of the brain until the drinker loses consciousness. 2 ounces of 90 proof whiskey will likely raise .05 percent blood alcohol, affects higher nervous centers; drinker loses inhibitions, forgoes conventions and courtesies, relaxes. 6 ounces of 90 proof whiskey will likely boost blood levels to .15 percent blood alcohol, affects deeper motor areas; drinker staggers, has slurred speech, is overconfident, acts on impulse.

After 10 ounces of 90 proof whisky blood alcohol content of the average individual is likely at .25 percent and affects emotional centers of midbrain; drinker has impaired motor reactions and unsteady gait; sensations are distorted, drinker tends to see double, and is likely to fall asleep, without even being aware. 16 ounces later, another childhood memory seeped into my mind, the my old bedroom on the fourth floor, in the attic, the night lights burnt out, I was in the dark crying, unable to jolt myself awake. At this point, 16 ounces of liquor will likely raise blood alcohol content to .4 percent, affecting your sensory area of the cerebellum; sense are dulled, drinker is in a stupor—bad dreams and calling out for a mother who never came.

Sitting at the end of my bed, opening the curtains to let the silver moon in, saying there was nothing to be afraid of, I downed another shot of Macallan’s, at this point, there were 24 ounces of whisky in my body, blood alcohol content level of .6 percent, affecting my perceptual areas, drinker loses consciousness, only functions of breathing, and heartbeat remain. How could nothing harm me, I am invincible and courageous. Nothing could get us so long as we stuck together. And with Kenny by my side, I believed it, as he pour another shot of Macallan’s by my soft flesh coloured lips. Now with 32 ounces of whiskey, which is 90 proof, in my body, my blood alcohol content was .8 percent, affecting the entire brain; heartbeat and respiration stop; death. How old must I have been? Eleven, twelve?

And how was it that he knew how to comfort a lonely boy who was scared of the dark? Neither showing too much sympathy, nor too little—he pushed my corpse from the bed, onto the floor, one could hear the sound of hallow bones compressing. How he knew never to mention it again? As the liquor rapidly sucked the oxygen from my blood, my body turned blue, and cold, and my stomach was inflamed, as something was sucking and eating away at it—the pain I must have felt.

In hindsight’s, I could remember thinking that I was in no physical danger, Kenny was like a big brother to me, he looked out for me. When I was lonely, he would bring me magazines, and invite me out for pizza and beer. The odds of Kenny killing me were small, I knew him, and there were too many people around. I was just paranoid, a by-product of my usual problems, nothing more. There was nothing to be afraid of. Brain noise could not hurt, Kenny would never hurt me, after all, he was a famous actor, it would end his career, I thought before taking the first shot. Not as bullets did, not as a rock did, not as the 20 foot plunge into a dark, cold river, not as bombs, or bayonets. Kenny was a well-respected guy, he faced the public every moment of every day, there is nothing he would do to harm me, to what all of them, and they would say something. However, alcohol is also not an aphrodisiac. It usually impairs sexual performance, particularly in males. Provokes the desire, but takes away the performance, is what Alfred Hitchcock would say.

Alcohol, the World’s favorite depressant, breeds our biggest drug problem. Over 200 million people in North America (United States and Canada) use alcohol. It is estimated that 25 million of those 200 million have drinking problems.

The alarming trend is the high level of alcohol abuse among adolescents and young adults. Fifty percent of male college students and 40 percent of college women have engaged in binge drinking. Binge drinking is consuming 5 or more drinks in a short time, and for an average person, after five drinks, you are near death, and absolutely unable to drink or make any decisions. It is likely that you are near to losing consciences, and only your heart and lungs are working. When in a fraternity or sorority, the shocking fact is that 84 percent of college students binge drink. As a result, more than 50 students a year die from binge drinking.

Therefore, do not drink to relax, so not drink to have fun, do not drink to deal with negative feelings—this will cause you to abuse alcohol to deal with feelings and stress, and you will be at a great risk of becoming an alcoholic. At first, the social drinker begins to turn more often to alcohol to relieve tension or to feel good. Four danger signals in this period that signal excessive drinking are: Increasing consumption, the individual drinks more and more and may begin to worry about their drinking habits. If you are at work or school, and thinking about getting drunk, you have a problem. Also, drinking in the morning is a dangerous sign, particularly when it is to get through the day. Like a genius, pull at the hand brake, and lock the front wheels, fight to keep control. You feel the like dragging and pull at your spirit, but fight the hard urges to drink. Feel the problems going under you and away from you, remember, thinking what are the outcomes from drinking too much, how it hurts your brain, liver, stomach, kidneys, bladder, and bowels. If you drink too much now, and do not die, you may lose control of your bowls and bladder, or need an organ transplant, later in life, or you may end up in jail for hurting yourself or someone else.

The person who engages in extreme behavior while drunk, and regrets it has a problem. If abusive drinking may be revealed by an inability to remember what happened during intoxication—you have a problem. The night before you may have used the Proximus Diamond Games trophy as a murder weapon; a crucial turning point comes as the individual begins to lose control over drinking. At this stage, there is still some control over when and where a first drink, for the day or night, is taken. However, one drink starts a chain reaction, as fragments of life flash before your eyes, broken images of your parents, snap shots of the girls and guys you had tried to love, leading to a second and third drink, and so on.

At this point, like a plague commemorating the dead of Churchill Downs with a Woodford Reserve Mint Julep, while watching the World’s most famous race horse, alcoholics drink compulsory and continuously. They rarely eat, they become intoxicated from far less alcohol than before, and they crave alcohol when deprived of it. Their self-drugging, a spasm of pain to warn the travelers of the pain through you, is usually so compulsive that when given a choice, the bottle Macallan’s comes before friends, relatives, employment, and self-esteem. The alcoholic is an addict—you find no more panic or fear, when drinking, only peace. Your inner light, like the sensations in your body, become a dimming nimble and your brains is mush, full of downy softness, as the pleasure of your youth seeps from your body, departing to never return. No terror, most of all no pain. Just release. The sense of being welcomed home. Then, if and when you wake up, the present comes rushing back, violent and bright and brutal.

Treatment for alcohol dependence begins with the sobering up of the person and cutting off the supply. This phase is referred to as detoxification. It frequently produces all the symptoms of drug withdrawal and can be extremely unpleasant. Heavy alcohol abuse usually causes severe damage to the body organs and the nervous system. When alcoholics have dried out, and their health has been restored, they may be treated with tranquilizers (Chlorpromazine), antidepressants (Xanax), or psychotherapy. When it is analyzed by the consciences, little is the boast of insolence. Everybody liked better to conjecture how the thing was, than simply to know it; for conjecture soon became more confident then knowledge, and had a more liberal allowance for the incompatible. Even of perpetual conquest the heart will grow weary.