The Devil's In The Bottle
Sept 18, 2016 10:07:03 GMT
Valentina Lemay, Ernie Parker, and 3 more like this
Post by Tyler Keenan on Sept 18, 2016 10:07:03 GMT
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It sat there, watching him. Waiting for him.
He could feel it, deep in his bones. The eyes burning deep into him, staring deep into his soul. It consumed him, the anxiety and desperation that was brought about by this. His body pleaded with him, it needed him to understand that it craved. But he would not let it control him, he would not let it consume him, for he had done so once before and it had almost ruined his life. No, he was strong, he was powerful and he was confident, he did not need the taste of a warm liquid to help him through the night, to give him the ego boost that he felt that he sometimes so desperately needed.
And so he sat there, staring back at the devil before him. Tyler Keenan watched the bottle with intent, his eyebrows furrowed, his hands clenched into fists, his teeth gritted inside his mouth. There had been times in his life that he had overcome adversity, ever since he became a wrestler there had always been people who would tell him no. There had been the scum of the Earth that had told him that a former model could never succeed inside of a wrestling ring, but Tyler had never faced a devil so deadly as the one he was sat across from now.
There had been times in his life where he felt as though it was right to have a drink, that was normal. Everyone had those impulses, those times where the idea seemed good and right. There had been times where Tyler had wanted to drink, that it was a good idea to take the cap off of the bottle and down a little bit, and Tyler believed that it was okay. He had drank for fun and for pleasure, it had been one of his favourite hobbies. To be able to take off the top of the bourbon bottle and pour himself a shot or half a glass was something that he loved.
But this?
This was taking it too far.
He had made the mistake of giving in and falling into this mess. He had left himself a vulnerable man, open to deception and the commands of others. He could not remember what it was that had made him make the decision to quit wrestling, but whatever it was had made him feel so bad, so depressed and anxious, that not even a talk with his girlfriend could make it better. He had searched and he had clawed for ways to make this pain go away, to bring colour and sunshine into his life again, to find a reason to walk the Earth, but he had never been able to find it.
And so he turned to the bottle.
It was the only thing that would keep him sane, the only thing that stopped him from plummeting over the edge. It made him feel happy in a world that had taken it from him, bringing joy to a man who had all the things he had ever wanted. The sweet taste of whatever he wanted, the shiver and the rush as he cocked his head back and tipped it down his neck, it all made him feel alive again. For the first few months, at least.
Then he found that he was no longer in control.
Sooner rather than later, Tyler found that he could not live without the drink. It had become part of him, bonded with him. He craved it, he needed it to make himself better again. When he didn't drink he became irritable and moody, but when he did he became drunk and disorderly. He found himself trapped in a never-ending cycle that he could never get out of.
A cycle that cost him his relationship.
But he would not let it dictate his life anymore.
Sitting there, staring at the bottle, Tyler knew he needed to make a decision. He could give in and take a drink, or he could get up and walk away. It seemed like an easy decision. He could just get up, walk away and do something with his life, but he couldn't. His body simply would not move. He ran his sweaty palms down the legs of his jeans, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. It felt like he was trapped in a nightmare, controlled by something that he had once loved but now he hated, it had all come full-circle.
But he was better than this, he was Tyler Keenan. He had looked the odds in the face over a million times before and spat, he didn't need a bottle of bourbon to dictate his life. There was more to life than wrestling, he didn't need the sport to be complete. The itch to wrestle, the desire to step into the ring, it had all become a distant memory to him. There was no enjoyment in the sport anymore, he didn't see it.
He needed a fresh start, a clean slate.
And that meant no more alcohol.
With a deep breath, Tyler closed his eyes and willing himself to stand up. He could feel his entire body shaking, the jitters of withdrawal setting in. But he would not give into them. He opened his eyes and looked at the shaking of his left hand, before clenching it as tight as he could and making the decision to step away, leaving the alcohol on the coffee table.
He was better than this, he wasn't a sucker dependent on the drink.
And the whole world knew it.
He was Tyler Keenan.
And he had found himself again.
He could feel it, deep in his bones. The eyes burning deep into him, staring deep into his soul. It consumed him, the anxiety and desperation that was brought about by this. His body pleaded with him, it needed him to understand that it craved. But he would not let it control him, he would not let it consume him, for he had done so once before and it had almost ruined his life. No, he was strong, he was powerful and he was confident, he did not need the taste of a warm liquid to help him through the night, to give him the ego boost that he felt that he sometimes so desperately needed.
And so he sat there, staring back at the devil before him. Tyler Keenan watched the bottle with intent, his eyebrows furrowed, his hands clenched into fists, his teeth gritted inside his mouth. There had been times in his life that he had overcome adversity, ever since he became a wrestler there had always been people who would tell him no. There had been the scum of the Earth that had told him that a former model could never succeed inside of a wrestling ring, but Tyler had never faced a devil so deadly as the one he was sat across from now.
There had been times in his life where he felt as though it was right to have a drink, that was normal. Everyone had those impulses, those times where the idea seemed good and right. There had been times where Tyler had wanted to drink, that it was a good idea to take the cap off of the bottle and down a little bit, and Tyler believed that it was okay. He had drank for fun and for pleasure, it had been one of his favourite hobbies. To be able to take off the top of the bourbon bottle and pour himself a shot or half a glass was something that he loved.
But this?
This was taking it too far.
He had made the mistake of giving in and falling into this mess. He had left himself a vulnerable man, open to deception and the commands of others. He could not remember what it was that had made him make the decision to quit wrestling, but whatever it was had made him feel so bad, so depressed and anxious, that not even a talk with his girlfriend could make it better. He had searched and he had clawed for ways to make this pain go away, to bring colour and sunshine into his life again, to find a reason to walk the Earth, but he had never been able to find it.
And so he turned to the bottle.
It was the only thing that would keep him sane, the only thing that stopped him from plummeting over the edge. It made him feel happy in a world that had taken it from him, bringing joy to a man who had all the things he had ever wanted. The sweet taste of whatever he wanted, the shiver and the rush as he cocked his head back and tipped it down his neck, it all made him feel alive again. For the first few months, at least.
Then he found that he was no longer in control.
Sooner rather than later, Tyler found that he could not live without the drink. It had become part of him, bonded with him. He craved it, he needed it to make himself better again. When he didn't drink he became irritable and moody, but when he did he became drunk and disorderly. He found himself trapped in a never-ending cycle that he could never get out of.
A cycle that cost him his relationship.
But he would not let it dictate his life anymore.
Sitting there, staring at the bottle, Tyler knew he needed to make a decision. He could give in and take a drink, or he could get up and walk away. It seemed like an easy decision. He could just get up, walk away and do something with his life, but he couldn't. His body simply would not move. He ran his sweaty palms down the legs of his jeans, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. It felt like he was trapped in a nightmare, controlled by something that he had once loved but now he hated, it had all come full-circle.
But he was better than this, he was Tyler Keenan. He had looked the odds in the face over a million times before and spat, he didn't need a bottle of bourbon to dictate his life. There was more to life than wrestling, he didn't need the sport to be complete. The itch to wrestle, the desire to step into the ring, it had all become a distant memory to him. There was no enjoyment in the sport anymore, he didn't see it.
He needed a fresh start, a clean slate.
And that meant no more alcohol.
With a deep breath, Tyler closed his eyes and willing himself to stand up. He could feel his entire body shaking, the jitters of withdrawal setting in. But he would not give into them. He opened his eyes and looked at the shaking of his left hand, before clenching it as tight as he could and making the decision to step away, leaving the alcohol on the coffee table.
He was better than this, he wasn't a sucker dependent on the drink.
And the whole world knew it.
He was Tyler Keenan.
And he had found himself again.
