Have we met?

One night in July, I slept in a tent on Prince Edward Island. The wind blew hard that night, shaking the tent so violently that I woke repeatedly. In fact, the wind was so harsh my friend’s tent broke, and he woke up wrapped in canvas; he spent the rest of the night in the car. Because of the difficult night, all three of us got up around 6:30 in the morning, sunrise, although it was overcast.
Prince Edward Island is the smallest of Canada’s provinces, boasting a mere 100,000 people. It is a small island nestled on the East Coast, surrounded by the waters of the Atlantic Ocean. As we were all awake so early, we decided to take advantage, and go see the coast. It was nearby, of course (everything is nearby on the island), and we reached the coast within minutes. I don’t know why, but the rocks, and consequently the sand and soil, are the color of rust in P.E.I. We parked, and my friends immediately went down to the water, their cameras in tow. I hung back, intentionally, and doubled back to the car. I opened the trunk, and rooted through my duffel bag, which at that point was half filled with clothes and half filled with dirty laundry. I was looking for a bottle of whiskey.
About three weeks earlier, back in Winnipeg, I had purchased the bottle; I only drank about a quarter of it before I decided to quit drinking entirely, the culmination of a lengthy, messy bender. The morning that I was leaving for the coast, I had the impulse to pack the bottle, I didn’t know why at the time.
I was having a hard time finding the whiskey in my bag; although you’d think finding a glass bottle in a bag of clothes would be short work. I was getting frustrated, and accidentally knocked over a plastic bag with a bottle of BBQ sauce in it. Finally, I found the bottle of whiskey, and I stuffed it in my bag. I picked up the plastic bag with the BBQ sauce from the ground, to set it back in the trunk, and noticed that a) the bottle had broken, b) BBQ sauce was spilling all over my friend’s luggage, and c) I had cut my hand on the broken glass. I mopped up the spilled sauce as best I could with damp paper towels, and cleaned the blood off my hand and BBQ sauce out of my wound as best I could. I had cut my hand on the soft skin between my thumb and forefinger.
I set off along the coastline, in the opposite direction from my friends. Red cliffs lined the coast, and I walked along them, through knee high grass, until I found a sufficiently remote spot where the cliff jutted out over the water. Satisfied that I was alone, I took the bottle out of my bag. It was Wiser’s, my favorite brand of whiskey, and, as I said, the bottle was three-quarters full. I held the bottle with my bloody hand and said, aloud: "Liquor bottle, you carry all my fear, and you carry all my weakness. I send you out, now, into the world, to trouble me no more." And I flung the bottle over the cliff where it shattered against the red rocks, and mingled with the waters of the Atlantic Ocean.
Then I put a band-aid on my hand.
* * *
I haven’t posted in any serious way for along time. The fact is, since I quit drinking I have had no urge to write about myself, or my life. I stare at the blank Blogger posting rectangle and I have no desire to write anything. It’s taken me a week to write this. I don’t know what has brought this change about me, but I think I don’t like Dash Bradley, any more. It’s not my real name, of course, as I’ve mentioned, but a name I invented to describe both a kind of person I don’t much care for, and a two-dimensional character who becomes three dimensional. I think both descriptions are appropriate. It’s time to cast off this alter-ego, shed him like a skin I’ve outgrown.
I feel like… remember when you were a kid? Remember that moment when you realized you know longer wanted to play with toys? Remember how it was kind of sad, to be leaving your childhood behind you, but also kind of exciting? That’s how I feel. I’m sober, and I feel good about it. I’m going to AA. I’m probably going to go into therapy (but I’m not taking the pills). I’m looking for a new job. I’m even starting to write again.
Maybe these are placebos and pipe dreams, and in six months I’ll be back where I started, drunk and hopeless. I don’t know. All I know is that, right now, I don’t feel hopeless at all.
As hope is alien to Dash Bradley, I must send him away, off into the wastes of Siberia with his bitterness and his alcohol. Who knows? I may check in on him from time to time.
As for me, I’ve found this an interesting experience, and may return to blogging in the future. I have met some terrific people I wouldn’t have met otherwise and I’ll be keeping my eye on you, don’t worry.
My name is Nicholas Andrew Beley, and I’m not dancing so madly anymore.