Rehab

Source: Excited Photography

My sterling silver Star of David necklace was violently yanked from my wobbling body. I had just pushed over an Israeli’s motorcycle and the owner was sitting at a nearby bar. Why did I push over this man’s Yamaha? I have no fucking clue. All I know is that this man was sprinting toward me screaming, “What the fuck!?” in a thick Israeli accent. I immediately got in his face and asked him if he was sure he wanted to engage in a quarrel with someone much larger in size. He didn’t hesitate and immediately put me in a head lock. I managed to land two blows to his left cheeck, before my friend, an ex Israeli Seal came in and tackled him. I sprinted as fast as I could, with my friend already ahead of me and the angry motorcycle man coming after us with a broken wine bottle. Clearly, I have a problem.

On top of my “little” fight, I tricked my friend, the ex Israeli Navy Seal to text and call our boss at 3:30 in the morning. I told him that it was a girl whose number I got earlier in the night, at Clara nightclub. I remember fucking giggling and saying holy shit as he texted her sexual innuendos. The dude is a 6'2 tank. All muscle, knows jujitsu, and isn’t phased by much. He laughed when I told him it was our boss. It didn’t bother him one bit. Why would it? He was 21 with no responsibilities and a free place to live courtesy of the Israeli navy. Me on the other hand? 26 with a daughter and what feels like the world on my shoulders. Perhaps that’s why we drank 3 bottles of wine, 8 beers, and 6 shots between the two of us. I drink to get away from the realness of life. My friend? Only he can answer that.

I thought it was all fun and games until I realized he had mentioned in the text that he was with me. Fuck. Shit fuck. I’m for sure fired. On top of that, we ditched a dinner bill on a couple of girls, one who I had been seeing the last few weeks. Shit. I am not proud to share these juvenile stories. In fact, I am ashamed. I must share it, similarly to how a sinner tells his confessions to a priest.

Rewind things to seven weeks earlier. On my home country’s Independence Day, July 4th, I had my own day of sovereignty established. I moved out of my two bedroom apartment that housed Paco, our Border Collie — Black Lab mix, my nine month old daughter, Jordan, and girlfriend of almost two years, Rae. The move caused a stir of emotions, but at the time, it was mostly exhileration and jubilation.

After being wined and dined by my overly benevolent landlord, I quickly settled into my new home. I celebrated my first night of emancipation by drinking two bottles of red wine with a friend. I blasted Lil Wayne through my blue-tooth speakers that surely shook the entire building. Being drunk and in my own space was sublime. Completely blissful, relaxing, and invigorating.

Unfortunately, this newfound space proved to be too much for me to handle. I drank at least a bottle of wine or three tall boys of beer to myself every single night in that studio apartment, with a guest, or alone. My road to recovery starts now.

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