Bottom of the Bottle

We were indoctrinated with the idea that getting behind the wheel stoned or having unprotected sex could change the entire trajectory of life as we know it, but no one felt the need to mention that merely a glass of white wine in the wrong hands could do just the same.

Unlike the implications of blurred streetlights or the unexpected double pink line, a single Kokanee sweating on the counter could mean an assortment of things.

Celebration. Relaxation. Socialization.

Devastation. Dehumanization.

The beginning of a battle.

We talk about loyalty to our loved ones, but no one seems to disclose how infidelity can take one of many seats behind whiskey in the pursuit of destroying families.

How a one-ounce shot has the potential to shred relationships the way a grenade would desecrate the room it was dropped in, taking no consideration for the lives held within it.

How an eighty proof on ice could turn the people who claim to love us into hot breath on our face screaming the reasons they don’t.

It berates us with proclamations of who it thinks we are.

What it thinks we are.

Stupid. Ugly. Unworthy of love.

We don’t talk about how when you hear something enough you begin to believe it, despite every other instinct shaking you to remember every time you’ve proven yourself otherwise.

Just as we don’t talk about how living with it wears you down like the leather on the couch where it puts itself to sleep night after night.

In a desperate attempt to sidestep being perceived as afraid, we hide the way our pulse spikes in response to the sound of steel-toed boots coming through the front door or keys being tossed carelessly on the kitchen counter.

We don’t talk about the places we find our church because without so much as tasting it we caught the insecurity it breeds, and what if we also catch the hate.

Violence.

It’s only ever hit us with its words. It wouldn’t dare lay a hand on us.

But we also thought it would never threaten us, lie to us, or rob us of the things that make us who we are.

They don’t talk about how the alcohol slipping through someone else’s veins exhausts you.

It can push everyone else until they’re just out of reach and can’t see you grabbing for their hand.

It makes you quiet and forces you to be alone.

It could be someone else’s breaking point but you might be the one who fractures.

It could be the dividing line between safety and the place you were told never to wander.

It can strip you of your trust – the trust you spent years trying to build, just like that.

Because no one ever talks about how a single Kokanee sweating on the counter could mean an assortment of things.