I was born an addict.
I came out kicking and screaming; healthy, breathing, but already needing more.
My mother tells me that it was impossible to breast feed me. I would bite and cry, quickly becoming disinterested in the breast all together.
My mother did not seem to bring my infant self the feeling of security and peace that most new borns seem to inherently find.
My father tells me that the only way I would sleep would be if it was aided by a nip of whisky.
Could it be that before I could walk and talk, I already needed a mind altering substance to function?
I do not have many happy memories from my childhood. This is not to say it was bad or that I was mistreated, but simply that I felt like an alien in all situations.
An alien whose default feeling was deep rooted despair and default expression was red hot rage.
I liken my journey to adulthood to Indiana Jones's expeditions in the jungle; blindly whacking at anything in my path with a knife. Living in a perpetual survival mode.
There were many casualties in my war on the world, and just as many in my war on my mind.
Aged fifteen I seemed to find the solution. It had been right under my nose the entire time. It was alcohol.
And so began my wildly abusive, passionate and destructive on and off (but mostly on) relationship with the bottle.
It took years, but by University it was the single most important thing in my life.