My Battle with Bipolar, Alcoholism & Life in the Psychiatric Ward

At seven every morning Wayne showed up at the back door of his bar to go in for his morning drink. A group of men always accompanied him in this sunrise ritual. This morning was no different except for the third day in a row I tagged along with them. We were there for our morning re-infusion to stave off the jitters.

I was a new, youthful, smiling face amidst the older conservative gentlemen. I was also female. I added a lively change to their early morning banter. Fascinating them with my charm had won me into the group thus far.

We wasted no time in the morning getting down to business and our business was drinking. Two hours had passed when we slammed down our last shots of tequila. The bet had all came down to this. The winner had their bar tab picked up by the losers. Mine had grown tremendously large since it had been started three days before. I was not sweating it though. I had been trying unsuccessfully to get smashed for three days. As I looked at the other three competitors weaving in their chairs my confidence grew even stronger.

Wayne had not participated and was playing bookie as he held onto the tabs. He placed a strip of one-inch masking tape, about ten feet long, onto the tile floor running parallel with the bar. Whoever could go the longest distance without falling off won. Wayne had promised a bottle of Crown Royal to any person who could walk the entire length of the tape.

By ten that morning, I had already became a tyrant as I watched them regress into their previous night's stupor. I had worked them into a dander nettling at them about their ancient political beliefs. I quipped leisurely launching an assassination on their virile egos. I analyzed them gibing about why their wives had left. They began to dislike me. My strategy was to get their blood pumping so the alcohol would go quicker to their heads. It was now time to walk the plank.