Post by Shane Hunt on Mar 18, 2013 8:06:41 GMT -6
20th August 2012 - San Diego, California
I wake up to a terrible high pitched screaming. It reverberates through my skull, and it feels like my eardrums are about to tear if the noise doesn't stop soon. I then realise where I am and what the noise is. I'm at home, on the sofa I slept on for a few hours this morning. I'm wearing the same T-shirt and trousers I went out in the night before. The noise, my two year old son crying for anyone who's willing to listen.
I sit up on the sofa, and look down at my feet. It comes as no surprise to myself that I'm still wearing my trainers. I must have got so drunk last night, that I passed out before even considering taking them off. I let out a sigh, and consider getting up to go see my son. Before I muster the strength and will to do so, the crying comes to a sudden end. My wife must have got to him before me. I'm sure he wouldn't want to see me right now anyway, given the state I'm in.
My name is Shane Hunt, and I'm a former professional wrestler. I say former, as I've not wrestled for at least a year through no choice of my own. I think it's been a year, but I can't put an exact date on it. Since I injured my knee again, times have been rough for me. I started drinking every night, I stopped wrestling, and I decided to live off the money I'd saved through my years in the wrestling business. That money though, is becoming very tight. My wife has been working extra hours in her job, but she's still not really making enough to support the three of us in our big family home.
I put one hand on the arm of the sofa, and the other on the coffee table. Pushing down on them, I manage to get to my feet. I have to lean against the table for a few seconds, to allow the room to stop spinning. Still light headed, I make my way to the bathroom. As I pass by my sons bedroom where he and my wife are situated, I stop and turn my head to look inside the room. My wife glares back at me, and lets out a sigh. She doesn't need to say anything to me, as I know exactly what her expression implies. She's disappointed in me. Not angry, just disappointed. I've become a big disappointment to everyone over the past year or so, especially to my wife. She hasn't told me this, but I can sense her disappointment every time I'm in her presence.
I carry on walking toward the toilet. Each step is as difficult as the last. It feels like I have lead in my trainers. I also have a terrible headache, and even with the silence, my head continues to pound like there's a marching band within it. To anyone else, this feeling would be unbearable, but to me it's become the norm. If I woke up one day and didn't feel this way, I'd worry that something was wrong. It's a terrible way to think, but it's all part of being me.
I reach the bathroom. The door is ajar, so I knock it open with my foot. I would have used my hand, but right now that would be far too much of an effort. Stepping into the bathroom, my eyes are drawn straight toward the hand basin. Sitting to the left of the hot tap is a beer bottle, half empty. My eyes light up, and a faint smile appears on my face. Pathetic I know, smiling at the sight of alcohol. It's not just alcohol to me though. It's my release from a life which I have felt like ending on more than one occasion. It's my friend, my only true friend and I couldn't live without it.
I take the few hard steps needed to get to the hand basin. This time I am more than willing to lift my hand, if it means I can drink the rest of that beer. Slowly, my arm moves until my hand finds the beer bottle. Clutching it, I bring it's rim up to my already parted lips. Taking a swig of the warm yet still satisfying nectar, I then remove the bottle from my lips. I start to cough, realising that while I was drunk last night, I'd dropped a cigarette butt into the bottle. Leaning over the sink, I spit back up the mixture of ash, warm beer, and the cigarette butt. At the same moment, my wife pokes her head around the door frame and looks into the room.
" Are you OK? " Asks my wife, even though she can see that I'm not.
I'm far too stubborn to admit that I'm not OK.
" Fine. " Is my answer. To the point, even if it is a lie.
My wife is concerned, I can see it in her eyes as she stares at me.
" I'm worried about you, Shane. You need to get help, otherwise you're going to drink yourself to death. " She says. They're familiar words, which I've heard from so many people. I don't listen to anyone else though. This is my life, and drinking is my way of keeping my life under control.
I scowl at my wife, and angrily state, " I'm fine! The sooner everyone realises that, the better for me. Why don't you all just leave me alone, so I can live my life? "
I don't give my wife a chance to respond, because I already know what she'll say. Instead, I storm past her and out of the bathroom.
" Shane, wait! " She shouts, but I don't listen. I don't want to listen. I just want to get out of this house, and back to the bar where I feel at home.
Quickly making my way to the front door, I grab at the handle and swing it open. Stepping through the doorway, I pull the door shut with great force, causing it to slam hard. The instant it slams, my son starts to cry, as does my wife.
This is my life, my Hell. As much as I wish I could change it, I don't believe I ever will be able to...
I wake up to a terrible high pitched screaming. It reverberates through my skull, and it feels like my eardrums are about to tear if the noise doesn't stop soon. I then realise where I am and what the noise is. I'm at home, on the sofa I slept on for a few hours this morning. I'm wearing the same T-shirt and trousers I went out in the night before. The noise, my two year old son crying for anyone who's willing to listen.
I sit up on the sofa, and look down at my feet. It comes as no surprise to myself that I'm still wearing my trainers. I must have got so drunk last night, that I passed out before even considering taking them off. I let out a sigh, and consider getting up to go see my son. Before I muster the strength and will to do so, the crying comes to a sudden end. My wife must have got to him before me. I'm sure he wouldn't want to see me right now anyway, given the state I'm in.
My name is Shane Hunt, and I'm a former professional wrestler. I say former, as I've not wrestled for at least a year through no choice of my own. I think it's been a year, but I can't put an exact date on it. Since I injured my knee again, times have been rough for me. I started drinking every night, I stopped wrestling, and I decided to live off the money I'd saved through my years in the wrestling business. That money though, is becoming very tight. My wife has been working extra hours in her job, but she's still not really making enough to support the three of us in our big family home.
I put one hand on the arm of the sofa, and the other on the coffee table. Pushing down on them, I manage to get to my feet. I have to lean against the table for a few seconds, to allow the room to stop spinning. Still light headed, I make my way to the bathroom. As I pass by my sons bedroom where he and my wife are situated, I stop and turn my head to look inside the room. My wife glares back at me, and lets out a sigh. She doesn't need to say anything to me, as I know exactly what her expression implies. She's disappointed in me. Not angry, just disappointed. I've become a big disappointment to everyone over the past year or so, especially to my wife. She hasn't told me this, but I can sense her disappointment every time I'm in her presence.
I carry on walking toward the toilet. Each step is as difficult as the last. It feels like I have lead in my trainers. I also have a terrible headache, and even with the silence, my head continues to pound like there's a marching band within it. To anyone else, this feeling would be unbearable, but to me it's become the norm. If I woke up one day and didn't feel this way, I'd worry that something was wrong. It's a terrible way to think, but it's all part of being me.
I reach the bathroom. The door is ajar, so I knock it open with my foot. I would have used my hand, but right now that would be far too much of an effort. Stepping into the bathroom, my eyes are drawn straight toward the hand basin. Sitting to the left of the hot tap is a beer bottle, half empty. My eyes light up, and a faint smile appears on my face. Pathetic I know, smiling at the sight of alcohol. It's not just alcohol to me though. It's my release from a life which I have felt like ending on more than one occasion. It's my friend, my only true friend and I couldn't live without it.
I take the few hard steps needed to get to the hand basin. This time I am more than willing to lift my hand, if it means I can drink the rest of that beer. Slowly, my arm moves until my hand finds the beer bottle. Clutching it, I bring it's rim up to my already parted lips. Taking a swig of the warm yet still satisfying nectar, I then remove the bottle from my lips. I start to cough, realising that while I was drunk last night, I'd dropped a cigarette butt into the bottle. Leaning over the sink, I spit back up the mixture of ash, warm beer, and the cigarette butt. At the same moment, my wife pokes her head around the door frame and looks into the room.
" Are you OK? " Asks my wife, even though she can see that I'm not.
I'm far too stubborn to admit that I'm not OK.
" Fine. " Is my answer. To the point, even if it is a lie.
My wife is concerned, I can see it in her eyes as she stares at me.
" I'm worried about you, Shane. You need to get help, otherwise you're going to drink yourself to death. " She says. They're familiar words, which I've heard from so many people. I don't listen to anyone else though. This is my life, and drinking is my way of keeping my life under control.
I scowl at my wife, and angrily state, " I'm fine! The sooner everyone realises that, the better for me. Why don't you all just leave me alone, so I can live my life? "
I don't give my wife a chance to respond, because I already know what she'll say. Instead, I storm past her and out of the bathroom.
" Shane, wait! " She shouts, but I don't listen. I don't want to listen. I just want to get out of this house, and back to the bar where I feel at home.
Quickly making my way to the front door, I grab at the handle and swing it open. Stepping through the doorway, I pull the door shut with great force, causing it to slam hard. The instant it slams, my son starts to cry, as does my wife.
This is my life, my Hell. As much as I wish I could change it, I don't believe I ever will be able to...