Getting Thrashed

This weekend, we drank too much.

It was my idea to get thrashed. I needed it. I needed to drink until the world became a pleasure filled fuzzy haze. I needed to drink past that point, until I threw up once or twice. I needed to reset myself that way, like I do a couple times a year. I'm used to my inhibitions melting away, to becoming nothing but raw emotion. I revel in it. But he's never been that drunk before. And despite the fact that he's a whole head taller, and about 60 lbs. heavier than I am, he had the same amount to drink as I did (half a bottle of Jack Daniels) and he was the one who ended up getting rather very ill.

Maybe its that I've been drinking since I was twelve, and he's only been drinking for a year or two. Maybe its that I get totally wasted every few months on purpose, and know what to expect, and he didn't. Whatever the reason, I ended up stroking his hair, and rubbing his back as he bent over my kitchen sink sobbing and choking up all the hurt and frustration he'd bottled up inside himself. I cried too, seeing all that pain, feeling it as if it were my own, and promised over and over that everything would be alright.

As much as I wish it hadn't taken getting drunk for us to talk that way, I'm glad I got to see that side of him. So maybe getting him thrashed, just this once (I promised that as long as I was around, I'd never let him drink that much again), was a good thing. I got to see part of him that I might never have gotten to see otherwise... A part that made me feel needed... And a lot less alone.