Pretty sure us not being able to talk about our problems is how we became drunks in the first place.
[It'd be interesting, if Qrow ever cared to examine it, that he never uses the term alcoholic. The disparaging term comes more easily to his tongue, perhaps because he's not kind enough to himself to see it as a disease or an affliction of any kind. Easier, to choose the term that implies a character flaw, or a pattern of bad decisions. If the drinking isn't a competition, the self-loathing might as well be.
The rest of what Anna has to say, though, sticks uncomfortably in his ribs. The question of how he was able to stop isn't a question even he really knows the answer to, even if he always has the "why" in the back of his mind. Mostly it was a matter of desperate, terrified avoidance. He tossed away the flask in some remote drawer he'd never have to look at it again. At the beginning, simply being offered a drink at a party was enough to make him flee the entire premises. He lived with people who would notice if he slipped. But then...all that ties back to his why, doesn't it? All the precautions in the world wouldn't help if he didn't have that intense yawning chasm of fear for what ruin could lay in wait for him if he were to get blackout drunk again -- being dragged from a Brunswick Farms yet again, but without his loved ones this time.
Anna doesn't want to hear about any of that. It'd be salt on an open wound at this point, wouldn't it? There's an uncomfortable silence wherein Qrow rather wishes they were still walking, because it'd be less awkward that way.]
...Honestly? For a long time, it felt less like it was destroying me and more like the only thing keeping all my wrecked bits together. Like a shitty glue where little pieces fall out all the time, but it still held enough to do its job, and that was good enough.
[It's surprisingly difficult to admit. He's talked about the drinking a little to a few select others, talked about why he stopped and a couple of those times even a little about how hard it was. He's never told anyone why he drank. About how keeping the knives in his heart dulled felt like the only way he could keep it beating.]
It's just--there came a time when that wasn't good enough anymore. When there weren't any more pieces that could fall without taking down the whole thing, everything that made keeping me together matter to begin with.
[He rubs at his neck, and eventually just standing there trying to talk about this starts to feel a bit overwhelming, and he starts to pace a little.]
As for how .... I mean, shit, it sounds stupid, but I don't really know? This whole time, I kept expecting to fuck it up. I'd just--look for ways to put that off. Like...if it was raining, I'd tell myself I didn't wanna get soaked and wait out the storm, and after the storm I'd have to stop watching TV or whatever else, get up and find my wallet, and then my keys, right? I'd make it a pain in the ass to go, and I didn't live alone, so I'd have had to make sure nobody heard me either, because then I'd have to look them in the eye and lie to them.
[His pacing comes to a slow stop, and he raises a hand to rub at his neck.]
And things never stayed peaceful in Deerington long. Any moment you could end up somewhere like that corpse boat in September and have to escape, or suddenly get attacked by monsters, or some other nonsense.
[He rolls a shoulder in a vague shrug.]
Point is...you already know how to start. If you start looking at it as having to be sober for the rest of your life, of course it's gonna freak you out. But right now is doable. An hour from now is doable. Tomorrow's doable. Next week, next month, next year can wait.
no subject
Pretty sure us not being able to talk about our problems is how we became drunks in the first place.
[It'd be interesting, if Qrow ever cared to examine it, that he never uses the term alcoholic. The disparaging term comes more easily to his tongue, perhaps because he's not kind enough to himself to see it as a disease or an affliction of any kind. Easier, to choose the term that implies a character flaw, or a pattern of bad decisions. If the drinking isn't a competition, the self-loathing might as well be.
The rest of what Anna has to say, though, sticks uncomfortably in his ribs. The question of how he was able to stop isn't a question even he really knows the answer to, even if he always has the "why" in the back of his mind. Mostly it was a matter of desperate, terrified avoidance. He tossed away the flask in some remote drawer he'd never have to look at it again. At the beginning, simply being offered a drink at a party was enough to make him flee the entire premises. He lived with people who would notice if he slipped. But then...all that ties back to his why, doesn't it? All the precautions in the world wouldn't help if he didn't have that intense yawning chasm of fear for what ruin could lay in wait for him if he were to get blackout drunk again -- being dragged from a Brunswick Farms yet again, but without his loved ones this time.
Anna doesn't want to hear about any of that. It'd be salt on an open wound at this point, wouldn't it? There's an uncomfortable silence wherein Qrow rather wishes they were still walking, because it'd be less awkward that way.]
...Honestly? For a long time, it felt less like it was destroying me and more like the only thing keeping all my wrecked bits together. Like a shitty glue where little pieces fall out all the time, but it still held enough to do its job, and that was good enough.
[It's surprisingly difficult to admit. He's talked about the drinking a little to a few select others, talked about why he stopped and a couple of those times even a little about how hard it was. He's never told anyone why he drank. About how keeping the knives in his heart dulled felt like the only way he could keep it beating.]
It's just--there came a time when that wasn't good enough anymore. When there weren't any more pieces that could fall without taking down the whole thing, everything that made keeping me together matter to begin with.
[He rubs at his neck, and eventually just standing there trying to talk about this starts to feel a bit overwhelming, and he starts to pace a little.]
As for how .... I mean, shit, it sounds stupid, but I don't really know? This whole time, I kept expecting to fuck it up. I'd just--look for ways to put that off. Like...if it was raining, I'd tell myself I didn't wanna get soaked and wait out the storm, and after the storm I'd have to stop watching TV or whatever else, get up and find my wallet, and then my keys, right? I'd make it a pain in the ass to go, and I didn't live alone, so I'd have had to make sure nobody heard me either, because then I'd have to look them in the eye and lie to them.
[His pacing comes to a slow stop, and he raises a hand to rub at his neck.]
And things never stayed peaceful in Deerington long. Any moment you could end up somewhere like that corpse boat in September and have to escape, or suddenly get attacked by monsters, or some other nonsense.
[He rolls a shoulder in a vague shrug.]
Point is...you already know how to start. If you start looking at it as having to be sober for the rest of your life, of course it's gonna freak you out. But right now is doable. An hour from now is doable. Tomorrow's doable. Next week, next month, next year can wait.