My name is "Mobi"; I'm an alcoholic

Please click on the above tab to read the entire “Mobi’s Story” in chronological order.

I am still drinking and I am writing this blog feeling very hung over.

I don’t know why but I can’t get it out of my head that I can exercise control over my drinking, go out and enjoy myself, and then go home and sleep at a reasonable time, like most other people.

I can do this for one, two, three or even four days, but each day I am drinking a bit more, and each day I am feeling a more hung over in the morning. Then comes the big one, and I lay one on, and come home at some ridiculous time, and have blackouts as to where I have been, and who I was drinking with.

Last night wasn’t a disaster, but it wasn’t good either. I have learned my lesson about driving and was on a walking bar hop in Jomtien.

I actually started drinking at home, the first time I have done this in many months. The reason was because I had some left-over beer and wine from the previous night when I staggered home after all the bars shut early for Makha Bucha Day. I had bought a dozen cans of beer and a bottle of red, but only drunk some of them and half of the red, as I was already fairly pissed.

So yesterday I had just finished writing my blog at around five thirty and I remembered there was some beer and wine in the place. So my evil little brain decided: “why not”

After demolishing the lot, I went out to eat and to drink some more beer. I recall the first part of the evening but not the latter, and have no recollection of staggering home or going to bed.

I didn’t take my medication or my insulin shot.

I note from my phone that I sent an sms message to some girl at three in the morning  so that must have been when I came home.

If I drink today it will be even worse, as every day I drink it gets progressively more excessive.

One of my problems is that I can’t get the situation of my friend Dave out of my mind.  For a long time I seemed to be able to detach myself from the reality that he was dying, but since his latest descent into an alcoholic stupor, the reality has set in, and it has hit me hard. He is going to die in the most horrible and wretched manner.

Another friend, who has been visiting Pattaya from Cambodia, has read my blog and has told me I seem to be hell bent on self destruction and he wouldn’t be a bit surprised to hear that I am dead. He is also convinced that I am in serious need of therapy.

He is an old and trusted friend, (also a recovering alcoholic who hasn’t had a drink for twenty nine years), and what he said was a bit of a shock to the system.

I think he is correct on both counts.

Anyone know of a good therapist within a reasonable distance of Pattaya or Bangkok?

I still have women coming and going in my life, and I have no idea where it will all end, but I have not slept with anyone for several days, and am not too bothered about it.

I will write all about them soon.

Wish me luck on my efforts to: “Not take a drink today”.

Dave’s lady called me this afternoon. Yesterday he was admitted to hospital and he is now being cared for by hospital staff.

The cost will be around three thousand five hundred Baht per day, so if he stays there any length of time it will completely wipe out the small amount of money he has left.

His lady told me that if he hadn’t been admitted yesterday he would have died. He is now being prevented from drinking or taking Lorazepam, and she advised he is a little better but still in a critical condition. He is still having very frequent bowel movements and the doctors are trying to assess the cause of this – almost certainly his liver.

Somebody has to be with Dave twenty-four/seven, so the duties are being shared between his lady and some staff from a company situated near the hospital which is owned by one of Dave’s old friends.

I have decided to go to Bangkok on Thursday – probably just for the day – and go to see Dave. It may be the last opportunity I have to see him before he dies. I don’t really want to go, as it will be very distressing and may lead me to take a drink but I have to go, for his Lady’s sake. She has been begging me to go for weeks.

MOBI VIGNETTES

AZZY – MY LOVE (Part 8 )

So we settled into a ‘way of life’ in Port Harcourt. I worked a five and a half day week, and the rest of the time I was with Azzy, at home or out drinking or taking weekend trips around the country.

Azzy’s behaviour was becoming increasingly volatile and there was rarely a day when she wouldn’t be having one of her temper tantrums with either me, one of her countless staff or some other unsuspecting member of the public. Alcohol also fuelled the level of her intolerable behaviour.

It must have been around June 1970 when Azzy announced out of the blue that she was pregnant. I had mixed feelings about this turn of events, as by this time Azzy was making me very unhappy with her unacceptable behaviour, and I was starting to wonder if there was a future in this marriage. I was feeling thrilled to be a father for the first time, but what future would the little mite have in such an unstable home.

It was inevitable that as the pregnancy drew on, Azzy’s behaviour became ever more extreme. She refused to stop drinking, and her shouting and fighting were getting out of hand. She became violent and would threaten me and others with knives and on one occasion even locked me in my bedroom for the whole weekend.

Right up to the day when I rushed her into hospital to deliver the baby, she never let up in her drinking, fighting and trouble making. It was almost as though she wasn’t pregnant as it didn’t seem to slow her down or sap her energy in the slightest.

The delivery took place on 27^th January, 1971 and took several hours, but within an hour of my baby son being born, Azzy was on her feet and demanding to be taken home.

My son was named Andy and was a lovely baby. He was pretty well behaved considering the lack of proper care from Azzy and a succession of Baby nurses.

Azzy seemed to regard Andy as an ‘accessory’ when out and about and became a useful focal point to make her the centre of attention at social gatherings.

When at home, she showed virtually no interest in the baby’s welfare, (except to shout at the nurse to do something when Andy wouldn’t stop crying), and for the most part she left him entirely in the hands of a baby nurse.

But when we attended company social occasions she would wheel baby along in a shiny new pram, and play the ever- loving mother. The hypocrisy of it all was galling.

My life grew increasingly unpleasant, and Azzy became ever more violent. Many was the day I would turn up for work with a black eye or cuts and scratches all over my face from Azzy’s ‘ministrations’, and I would have to make up all kind of excuses to explain my condition as I had no desire to let anyone know that I was effectively a “battered husband”.

This was increasingly so because I was living in Nigeria – Azzy’s home territory. There was virtually nothing I could do to legally put a brake on Azzy’s behaviour. There was no one to complain to, and if I tried report her to the police, then Azzy would have gone ballistic and may well have caused me even more physical harm. She certainly threatened as much on many occasions.

My two year contract was up in August 1971, and I realised that this might provide me with an opportunity to deal with some of Azzy’s more outlandish behaviour. An idea was germinating in my mind that once I got back to ‘civilization’ I would find a way to somehow curb her excesses.

I would receive two round trips air tickets to the UK for a thirty day holiday, and I planned to take Azzy and Andy with me to stay at my parents’ place in East London.

I thought that Azzy might “meet her match” if she started her violent tantrums when my father was around. I was almost looking forward to seeing him ‘deal with her”

As I counted the days remaining before we embarked on our trip, I could never have imagined just how far reaching events were to become, back home, in ‘Blighty’.