Best 263 quotes in «alcoholism quotes» category

Getting sober is a radically creative act.

Gin and whisky cost so much more. Oblivion and courage could no longer be purchased for the price of an old song.

God cannot be happy when we ignore such issues as crime, corruption, alcoholism and child neglect

-¿Has bebido, Harry? —¿Quieres oírlo? —Tu abuelo bebía. Yo lo quería mucho. Borracho o sobrio. No hay mucha gente que pueda decir lo mismo de un padre borracho. No, no quiero oírlo. —Ya. —Y lo mismo puedo decir de ti. Te quiero. Siempre. Borracho o sobrio. Ni siquiera ha sido difícil. Aunque eras muy combativo. Te enfrentabas a la mayoría, incluido tú mismo. Pero quererte es lo más fácil que he hecho en la vida, Harry.

...gripping the rim of the sink you claw your way to stand and cling there, quaking with will, on heron legs, and still the hot muck pours out of you. (p. 27)

Happiness was an evasive emotion that could not be fabricated, duplicated, or happened upon. It was something that was only handed out to a select few, but just like his mother, Ethan realized that he was never meant to have it.

Her boozy breath was day-old, but of quality of Origin. Malt whisky, Carl guessed. The air was so thick with it, an expert would probably be able to determine the vintage.

He starts to tell Isaac about his sobriety, but something stops him. Like if he speaks the words aloud he’ll jinx it. Like he’ll piss his demons off and they’ll come lurking about, reenergized, and give him another beating.

He would be a different person henceforward, and in his raw state he had bizarre feelings of what his new self would be.

His eyes are so clear and blue that nothing but clichés enter my mind.

His laugh is made of porch swings and lemonade.

Hit the bottom and get back up; or hit the bottle and stay down.

How is that for some people drinking is a short-term loan on the spirit, but for others a heavy mortgage on the soul?

I believe in 'Positives' not Negatives the only thing about Alcohol I'm Powerless over is those Damn Taxes

He looked as if he had been beaten to death with a wine bottle, but by doing it with the contents of the bottle.

I cannot trust my other side, my drunken side, to act in my best interests anymore.

I carried a bravado about my drinking like I was a hero of debauchery. But on that Christmas Day, I felt like shit. I had a vague realisation that I was just trying to keep up with some version of myself that I had decided was accurate.

Ich sag euch, ich hab schon so viel Malheur g’habt, und allzeit durch meine Räusch. Wann ich mir meinen Verdruß nit versaufet, ich müßt mich grad aus Verzweiflung dem Trunk ergeben.

I could simply kill you now, get it over with, who would know the difference? I could easily kick you in, stove you under, for all those times, mean on gin, you rammed words into my belly. (p. 52)

I couldn't stop so I quit.

I decided to believe that [my mother] had made it her life task not to pass on her damage to me, to give me good gifts, including the ones she had been unable to give herself. And, not right away, but eventually, I decided to believe that she had succeeded.

I didn't know what exhausted me emotionally until that moment, and I realized that the experience of being a soldier, with unlimited license for excess, excessive violence, excessive sex, was a blueprint for self-destruction. Because then I began to wake up to the idea that manhood, as passed onto me by my father, my scoutmaster, my gym instructor, my army sergeant, that vision of manhood was a blueprint for self-destruction and a lie, and that was a burden that I was no longer able to carry. It was too difficult for me to be that hard. I said, "OK, Ammon, I will try that." He said, "You came into the world armed to the teeth. With an arsenal of weapons, weapons of privilege, economic privilege, sexual privilege, racial privilege. You want to be a pacifist, you're not just going to have to give up guns, knives, clubs, hard, angry words, you are going to have lay down the weapons of privilege and go into the world completely disarmed.

I'd much rather spend all day on the Santa Monica pier playing Asteroids than delve into the murk and analyze myself. And if you think I haven't gone down to the pier to do that recently, well, you'd be wrong. Sometimes you just have to be twelve again.

I do not drink from this jug every day. But sometimes at night when the wind blows and I am alone and feeling very solitary, it is my only friend and comfort. Right, Pancho?

I don't need alcohol to see the world in its depths, I carry the sun in me. - On Being Inebriated.

I dun knw things get trapped In my mind Then itss smethin That I wanna find I dun get the answer Is there anyone listenin to me No one there to see To see the pain and the agony Inside ur beautiful heart To see that u kissed the pain And kicked everythin apart

I exhale a highway of smoke and stare down it, then say, Each day has just been survival, just getting through, standing it. Don’t you see how savage that sounds? Like, that’s the way men in prison yards think. You live in a rich suburb and teach literature.

I felt pure the way you feel after you vomit, kind of light and strangely holy, like having taken a sauna in hell.

I felt empty and sad for years, and for a long, long time, alcohol worked. I’d drink, and all the sadness would go away. Not only did the sadness go away, but I was fantastic. I was beautiful, funny, I had a great figure, and I could do math. But at some point, the booze stopped working. That’s when drinking started sucking. Every time I drank, I could feel pieces of me leaving. I continued to drink until there was nothing left. Just emptiness.

He had, he verily believed, overcome all tendency to fly to liquor - which, indeed, he had never done from taste, but merely as an escape from intolerable misery of the mind.

I appreciated her bluntness. Maybe it came with her sudden sobriety. Here she was back in the brightly lit world she had been avoiding for twenty years, and it was exactly as awful as she remembered it.

If I am this capable of loving an alcoholic so much, imagine how awesome I could be at loving myself.

If I were to create a word that more accurately describes alcoholism and addiction, I would say it was dependencyism. Sounds silly, doesn't it? Yet it's no sillier than the word alcoholism. The reason alcoholism no longer sounds silly to you is because you're used to hearing it, reading it, and thinking about it.

If those underlying conditions aren't treated, the return of those symptoms may cause us so much discomfort that we'll go back to using addictive drugs or alcohol to obtain relief. That's the primary reason there is such a high rate of relapse among people who have become dependent of alcohol and addictive drugs. It has little to do with alcohol and addiction themselves and almost everything to do with the original causes that created the dependency.

If you drink anymore, you're going to be positively flammable.

I can hear myself whining again 'Why does God torture me?' - But anybody who's never had a delirium tremens even in their early stages may not understand that it's not so much a physical pain but a mental anguish indescribable to those ignorant people who don't drink and accuse drinkers of irresponsibility - The mental anguish is so intense that you feel you have betrayed your very birth, the efforts nay the birth pangs of your mother when she bore you and delivered you to the world, you've betrayed every effort your father ever made to feed you and raise you and make you strong and my God even 'educate' you for life, you feel a guilt so deep you identify yourself with the devil and God seems far away abandoning you to your sick silliness - You feel sick in the greatest sense of the world, breathing without believing it, sicksicksick, your soul groans, you look at your helpless hands as tho they were on fire and you can't move to help, you look at the world with dead eyes, there's on your face an expression of incalculable repining like a constipated angel on a cloud - In fact it's actually a cancerous look you throw on the world, through browngray wool fuds over your eyes - Your tongue is white and disgusting, your teeth are stained, your hair seems to have dried out overnight, there are huge mucks in the corners of your eyes, greases on your nose, froth at the sides of your moth: in short that very disgusting and well-known hideousness everybody knows who's walked past a city street drunk in the Boweries of the world

If you threw Elvis and a scarecrow in a blender, topped the whole thing off with Seagram's 7 and pressed dice, you would make my dad. He's got tar black hair and shoulder blades that cut through his undershirt like clipped wings. He looks like a gray-skinned, skinny-rat cowboy and I would be lying if I didn't say that I am, maybe sorta kinda, keep it secret, in love with him. And you would be, too, you would, if you met him before drink number five or six. Just meet him then. Get lost before things get ugly.

If fear is like a storm wave striking you, then a panic attack is a tsunami that batters your soul. Drinking to overcome panic attacks is like smoking cigarettes to overcome asthma. You start with one problem, then you have two.

If fear is like a storm wave striking you, then a panic attack is a tsunami that batters your soul.

I had to feel sorry for Bubba's wife. In AA we called it denial. We take the asp to our breast and smile at the alarm we see in the eyes of others.

I had two speeds, which often varied with my blood alcohol level: fine with whatever, and never, ever satisfied. Where was the balance between these two?

I had never before considered the possibility that I might never even want a drink yet still be left with this horrible, throbbing vacancy in the center of my being, right where my mental health and contentment were supposed to be.

I have, he went on, betrayed myself with belief, deluded myself with love tricked myself with sex. the bottle is damned faithful, he said, the bottle will not lie

Karl Marx: "Religion is the opiate of the masses." Carrie Fisher: "I did masses of opiates religiously.

I'll never amount to anything—well anything my parents want, so instead I’ll end up puking and drinking till I’m blind drunk, It’s funny my mother says I hurt myself to spite her but she doesn’t know I hurt myself because I am, I am, I am a writer.

I mean, that's at least in part why I ingested chemical waste - it was a kind of desire to abbreviate myself. To present the CliffNotes of the emotional me, as opposed to the twelve-column read. I used to refer to my drug use as putting the monster in the box. I wanted to be less, so I took more - simple as that. Anyway, I eventually decided that the reason Dr. Stone had told me I was hypomanic was that he wanted to put me on medication instead of actually treating me. So I did the only rational thing I could do in the face of such as insult - I stopped talking to Stone, flew back to New York, and married Paul Simon a week later.

In addition to the smells of mince and pumpkin pies, the Sage and onions of turkey stuffing, another aroma floated in the air, the very essence of Santa Claus. Years later, when I was grown up, I still remembered that marvelous fragrance and recognized it as Scotch whisky.

I need a drink. Vodka is the only thing that makes everything go away. Vodka is that delightful, black, ink-out paint that stops everything hurting. Vodka gives me black, dreamless sleep. Like death...like beautiful suicide.

I never had a childhood. Not like the rest of them anyway. I had a starting point from which I have never stopped running.

In retrospect, this seems to summarize all the insanity of that time. Guy is standing on top of a burning building. Helicopter arrives, hovers, drops a rope ladder. Climb up! the man leaning out of the helicopter's door shouts. Guy on top of burning building responds, Give me two weeks to think about it.