Detoxi Blues

[KenW]

I have been ushered into Detox, by receiving a scare from a friend of mine who is into all this touchy feely body energy naturo therapy shit. Doesn't take a medical whizz to diagnose somebody who admits to a bit of drink with liver disease. But she went much further into quite a few subtleties of symptoms and causes that scared me into thinking it over.

The aim is apparently to get all the toxins out of your body. Let key organs like the liver heal.

So Understanding FMs, if I seem a bit grumpy for a while, a bit lost, or a bit sad, please be tolerant and patient.

I asked her how long would it have to be?

She replied: 3 months.

I pooed my nappy.

You'd have to be crossing the Sahara on hands and knees to go that long without alcohol.

Or a jewish boy in a WWII army boot camp.

I asked: what about 3 days?

She compromised by replying: try 3 weeks and see how you go.

O dearie me...

[pacman]

Ken, 3 weeks won't be enough if you have giving the turps a nudge for a few years.

I know several alcoholics, the term to describe them is 'functioning alcoholics', i.e. they can perform their work while still under the permanent influence of liqueur. You can talk to them & never even know they were legally drunk.

But they are smart guys & they know that sometimes they have to give themself a rest. One of them describes the first month he stops drinking as extremely painful as the toxins leave his body. A living hell is how he describes it.

But then the hangover hits. It can be 4 weeks after he stops, it can be 5 weeks & it can be longer. It all depends on how long it has been since his last detox & how heavily he has drunk since then.

And this is someone who can drink 10 beers followed by two or 3 bottles of wine, then a bottle of cognac. And the next night he does the same!! But he works during the day, he can stop drinking at will, I don't know if he qualifies as a true alcoholic but he drinks prodigious amounts of booze.

And he never slurs his words either! He is wealthy enough to employ a driver however. He may be a drunk but he's not an idiot.

Anyway, I was mentioning the hangover. Apparently it hits like a sledgehammer & lasts from 3 days to a week. It is the part of the process he fears most & is the single thing that keeps him drinking even when he thinks he shouldn't. He is so afraid of the pain.

Once he has flushed the booze out & the hangover stops, he is fine. He hates that he can't stay sober, the moment someone wants to share a glass of wine, it all starts over again. He knows it is killing him & he would give anything to control it.

If you can stay sober for a month or at least until you are over the hangover, you will improve your life immeasurably. Who knows, you may even start having spontaneous erections again.

[deepthroat]

Hi, my name's "deepthroat" and I'm an alcoholic....

[williethepimp]

Ken, 3 weeks won't be enough if you have giving the turps a nudge for a few years.

I know several alcoholics, the term to describe them is 'functioning alcoholics', i.e. they can perform their work while still under the permanent influence of liqueur. You can talk to them & never even know they were legally drunk.

But they are smart guys & they know that sometimes they have to give themself a rest. One of them describes the first month he stops drinking as extremely painful as the toxins leave his body. A living hell is how he describes it.

But then the hangover hits. It can be 4 weeks after he stops, it can be 5 weeks & it can be longer. It all depends on how long it has been since his last detox & how heavily he has drunk since then.

And this is someone who can drink 10 beers followed by two or 3 bottles of wine, then a bottle of cognac. And the next night he does the same!! But he works during the day, he can stop drinking at will, I don't know if he qualifies as a true alcoholic but he drinks prodigious amounts of booze.

your friend can get tablets to lessen the impact of alcohol withdrawal.....sudden withdrawal symptoms for the chronic alcoholic have in many cases proved fatal......its more serious than withdrawal from heroin...

And he never slurs his words either! He is wealthy enough to employ a driver however. He may be a drunk but he's not an idiot.

Anyway, I was mentioning the hangover. Apparently it hits like a sledgehammer & lasts from 3 days to a week. It is the part of the process he fears most & is the single thing that keeps him drinking even when he thinks he shouldn't. He is so afraid of the pain.

Once he has flushed the booze out & the hangover stops, he is fine. He hates that he can't stay sober, the moment someone wants to share a glass of wine, it all starts over again. He knows it is killing him & he would give anything to control it.

AT first I thought your friend may be a heavy drinker only,but that last sentence gives the game away....an alcoholic has lost control of his drinking,and cannot control it once he starts.

If you can stay sober for a month or at least until you are over the hangover, you will improve your life immeasurably. Who knows, you may even start having spontaneous erections again.

Hi, my name's "deepthroat" and I'm an alcoholic....

5555-DT-Dontcha know anonymity is the password.......will w (the pimp)

[KenW]

Day 4

I feel no different, outwardly healthy as usual.

My shoulders chest and upper back still the colour of the redskins as first described by the arriving New Englanders. (A key symptom of liver disease picked up by my friend and confirmed by googling)

My weariness and lethargy still hanging about the place like fog on a winter morning. (A second symptom)

Bad taste in my mouth each a.m.

But the most noticeable features for me are not physical.

They are emotional.

I am beset my this signal sadness, a melancholy that has totally replaced any general joy and private gaiety I normally exude.

My maid says to me last evening: Anh buon khi khong uong ruou. (You're sad when not drinking wine)

I can only shrug my shoulders and smile limply.

I mark off another day in my Agenda book and wonder, like Robinson Crusoe, will Friday ever cum?

[pacman]

Ken, as one of your support team I feel obliged to add some encouragement.

The friend I refer to above shared many of his concerns with me & at the height of his drinking (when he would wake somewhere after a 3 day bender not knowing where he was or what he had done), he admitted that he was never going to make old bones & needed to make some plans for his wife & 3 children. This would be in the form of life insurance but for the sum involved, he needed to pass a rigorous medical examination. This included passing a liver function test. This would appear impossible in light of the fact that he had been diagnosed with a swollen liver 25 years previously.

He could afford the best medical advice & he rigorously followed his specialists advice. I don't know just how long he stayed sober & I don't know what medication he was on but much later we were talking & I asked him how he went. "No problem, all tests came back 100% & insurance approved".

His damn liver had regenerated itself to work as good if not better than mine!!

Please take heart from that Ken, it is never too late to start swinging the ship around. I hope you are following orders & drinking plenty of water with lots of fresh fruit & vegetables. I don't know what medication helps but if you aren't on it yet, please do so. There are excellent herbs too that ease liver illness but I am sure you know about them. Milk Thistle is one that I keep reading about.

[KenW]

Ken, as one of your support team I feel obliged to add some encouragement.

I hope you are following orders & drinking plenty of water with lots of fresh fruit & vegetables.

pacman, I have greatly appreciated your contributions to my threads: thoughtful, insightful, encouraging, supportive.

That such dialogues continue is one of my dearest hopes. I love this forum and find I rely on it increasingly for a network of like minds and good souls. FMs such as yourself are crucial.

I have added you to my friends list. I hope you don't mind that.

And yes, I do take lots of water, fresh fruit and veges, and have done so for most of my life. It is one of the redeeming features of living in Vietnam: the magnificently healthy diet.

[pacman]

Thank you Ken, you are very welcome. I had hoped I wasn't being patronising. I am sure guys who have personal experience with alcohol addiction could give a better insight but I quite understand any reluctance on their part to delve into something most would prefer to forget.

But where angels fear to tread, that's where I am likely to be posting. Life is just too short to be sitting on the fence on matters that may or may not offend someone.

I have been thinking about the time frame of hangovers, etc & I think I may be way off with my estimate of 4 to 5 weeks. I am sure my friend told me that he could expect to get sick anywhere between one month & three months, depending on how long he left it since his last detox. I will ring him & ask but he doesn't live in Oz anymore.

It's good to hear you follow a healthy diet, healing will be much quicker if you can take as much load off your liver as possible.

Once you conquer this dragon, the next step will be to quit the cigarettes. Most heavy drinkers like to smoke. I know my friend sees them as being worse than any occasional binge drink. And they are the reason he left Oz, the smoking restrictions here are among the strictest in the world.

He once told me that he could order a liver through the black market (I mentioned he was wealthy) but he regretted that he couldn't order a pair of lungs. I look back on these conversations as being completely surreal, imagine going to the agent & asking "one liver please, make it from a young non-drinker". Apparently the prices are astronomical & there are no shortage of customers!!

[KenW]

I have been thinking about the time frame of hangovers, etc & I think I may be way off with my estimate of 4 to 5 weeks.

Once you conquer this dragon, the next step will be to quit the cigarettes.

He once told me that he could order a liver through the black market (I mentioned he was wealthy) but he regretted that he couldn't order a pair of lungs. I look back on these conversations as being completely surreal, imagine going to the agent & asking "one liver please, make it from a young non-drinker". Apparently the prices are astronomical & there are no shortage of customers!!

Touch wood, but I am not a sufferer of hangovers. I blurrily recall my previous hangover some 40 years ago, when I was still learning to drink. So it may be quite something to live through this experience.

I have, as Winston Churchill said tellingly, "got more out of the booze than it ever got out of me". So hopefully this current situation is but a hiccup. For like it was for the former Pommie PM, it has been my ally for a long long time.

I have never been a smoker, so I hope that goes in my favour.

Cutomers is an interesting term. I wonder how many of them are willing marketplace traders. I have heard shock horror tales of poor Indians or Banglas waking up one morning to struggling for breath, woozy heads, vast body pain, and big incisions in their torsos, able to recall nothing of what happened last night, or how to move their body into sitting or standing position without their guts flopping, Snowden like, onto the floor.

[KenW]

Day 7

The walls lean in, they bend, like truth in the hands of a politician, bent walls, sounds like a VNese ice-cream vendor on speed, toodley ooo la ooo la ooo, the rolly poley sound of a fairground hirdy girdy, they threaten me, unlike the ice cream vendor, but like the moderators of disapproving porno forums, can I sustain them, keep them back, hold them thither, the way they keep floodwaters at bay by stacking sandbags, or will they press on anyhow, relentless, dogged, determined, destructive, crushing me in the end, like so many old automobiles in an American junkyard, there are four of them, and if you count the ceiling and the floor, there are six surfaces seeming set to crush me, trash my spirits and my flesh, six surfaces of a rectangular solid, not quite a cube but nearly so, I could calculate all sorts of things about them, their collective area, their joined sectional length, various ratios between sides, would all that cogitating help, would it convince them to have faith in their joints, their bolts, their nuts, I’ve got no faith in my nuts, so why should they have any in theirs, my nuts never could control things when I needed them to, the bolt was always blown before the horse got out, and as we know the horse always got out before the gate was shut, so no use either closing the gate or searching haplessly for the condom, all the little astronauts are floating free in uterine canal space, or wallowing about in a pitch black rectum, bumping into incipient turds, Eagle, this is Mission Control, we’ve just blown our bolt, too quick by far Mission Control, that’s always how it was, how many women whined in my face, so quick, too quick, gone already, how that hurt and embarrassed, like these walls will do, hurt because it’s physical, embarrass because as I go under, I will doubtless scream out for one last drink, and that will embarrass me in front of all who have tried to help me, be of assistance, offer sound advice, then disappointed in me, will scowl like my mother used to do, weak of will, that’s what she said, beneath the lenses perched atop the bridge of her supercilious snoz, gazing down at the crossword, pen to her lip, not even bothering to look up, to make eye contact with me, totally contemptuous, weak of will, the call to down arms that resounded throughout the house, perhaps I could try the same on these walls, weak of will, giving in too easily to my fear, falling in on me, flattening me like a pudding under a steam roller, the walls, the walls, hold back the walls, was that what the soldier in white yelled out just before he died, perhaps it was, I forget, I have no faith in my memory now, seven days is a long time if I remember rightly, or did I say that already, such a longest time, talk about the longest day, what about the longest week, seven up, then seven down, after the manner of so many coin tosses, but that reminds me too much of casinos, something I have grave fear of, not for my own weaknesses, but for the evil generated by nasty people who have trashed me for the high of the tables, and good money hosed down the fatcat’s plughole, straight into his bin, a giant underground vault of money, moved around with a bulldozer, just like Unca Scrooge in the Donald Duck comics, my own weaknesses are much more straightforward, they are the drink, which, wait a moment, I’m not supposed to keep mentioning, and time, which I can because I’m allowed to boast about seven days on the road to abstention, my throat rasping like sandpaper, my taste buds feeling like they’ve got cockroach shit scattered all over them, discovering, like Paul did his new calling near Damascus, my orality, realizing that without a glass in hand I must find some suitable substitute for my mouth to muzzle up to, my lips to lovingly latch onto, I had never realized that trying to give up the drink, there I mentioned it again, I must stop mentioning it, would allow me insight into my own past with such clarity, my orality, that’s what I’ve discovered this week, does that explain why I have a lifelong love of cock, why ladyboys are the epitome of my sexual desires, why their Holy Poles and their blubby lil hormone hampered members are so vital to me, in my mouth, that’s it, and why my past wife sang so tellingly and sadly one night, as our marriage was breaking down, to a tune originally named You don’t buy me flowers anymore, by some pop composer or other, possibly Neil Diamond, but if not someone of equal ego bolstering churnout, but she sang the tune to her own words, You don’t cut my toenails anymore, for when I couldn’t get cock, as you often can’t in a marriage, when you’re the bloke, I opted for the next best things in order of size preference, toes then nipples, they do lack women don’t they, they lack one big thing, of vital import, toes and nipples are fine of their own accord, but as cock substitutes they lag quite a bit behind, like some gluepot nag clumping down the straight at the furlong post with the winner and runners-up rusted onto their glory already, I didn’t suck her toes anymore, poor thing, or give out loving pedicures, what a sign, just like these damn walls, how they lean, look, there, look, can you see, they definitely lean in, they élan in, they ale’n in, they nale in, but I can survive, just like any other anagram, it’s only a week, or according to my late mother, only a weak, and what’s a weak between friends, eh, week of will, that’s what it is, week of will …

[pacman]

Oh blimey...

no one said this was going to be easy. But if you can hold out a week, then you can hold out for however long this takes.

And that cocky shit in your mouth, that goes too. The body is healing itself & you are barely past the first treatment.

And look how creative that has made you. Where else in Christendom would we share a fellow FM's experience with such eloquence.

I can't wait to read your outpourings when the headaches start. And are you drinking enough water? Try green or herbal tea, it is water with a little taste.

Not a great taste but it might make it more palatable. It might not either but right now, you have more important things to worry about.

Your recovery to full health. Accept nothing less.

[KenW]

Day 10

I walk, I fidget, I sit down, I get up, I sigh, I walk again, back and forth, across the bedroom, out into the stairwell, up the stairs, to my study, walk the length, sit at keyboard, sigh, mooch blankly at monitor, unmotivated to tap, get up, climb up another flight, to the roof deck, walk to the rim, look down at the street, a fat old bag hand drags her toddler grandchild, yapping away to each other in infant talk, sigh, a boy from the ice works roars past on his clapped out old motorbike, as though he’d just heard a B52 strike was imminent, I walk back, it’s raining, gentle pitter patter, rolling thunder, my hammie hurts where I slipped on the wet tiles last night, fancy a grown geriatric not seeing water all over the kitchen tiles, down I went, arse over tit, both feet out from under me, somehow the left leg gets caught under my body and the hammie snaps, so much for being stone cold sober, give me falling down drunk any day or night. Hapless but harmless.

I do not feel any better. Take it from me. That’s the big surprise. Ten days in and I do not feel healthier, I do not resonate with robust happiness, with joy I do not gush, unlike the life-giving orange morning liquid that oozes from my juicer. Perhaps I am expecting too much. It’s only been ten days. I am down. I am sad. Sad is my overwhelming word, sadness my dominant feeling, Sad Sack my comic motif. I am sad of heart, sad of mind, sadness pervades my soul. I feel like a whore who is used to being fucked five times a night, at home on holiday with her parents. Just think how good this respite is for you, a typical mother’s comment, how it reinvigorates your body, how it re-builds your health. But I just want to be fucked mama.

Well, I’m just like that whore. And she’s crying out for me. She doesn’t know it, she doesn’t even know me, she doesn’t even know I exist, but every time she pines for a pound of flesh plugged between her flaps, thrusting and withdrawing, bringing her exquisite delight and unbearable pleasure, that unique slushing sound as cunt is filled, emptied and re-filled, that sloppy slurpy bed squeaking supplement to heavy breathing and incoherent babble, that pre-empts moaning before it gives to yelling and screaming out for more more more, she knows me even though she doesn’t, she feels for me even though she cannot reach out to me, she gives out understanding of my oasistic dilemma: I am not partaking of refreshing life-giving liquid isolated in the desert of drabness, but on the contrary I am living in a devilish dungeon of a desert uncontaminated but surrounded by miles and dunes and swales vegetated with the nectar producing relieving refreshments I so crave, those which render life acceptable, times tolerable, situations sufferable, can-dos doable.

I sigh. I just want a drink mama. When O when will it be? Please god in whom I cannot believe, here’s your chance, your big shot at converting a blaspheming infidel heathen on the spot, when all you hafta do is show up with a perfectly healthy liver and by a click of whatever passes for godly fingers, insert it in me like a cucumber stuck up that holidaying whore, bringing us all relief, a good deal of joyous shouting and the ability to go on another day. I will fall down on my knees, not only become immediately converted, but pray to whatever doctrine you demand, whatever shit you stand for, and offer to suck whatever holy poles you care to flip out from your non-earthly parts hidden under the robes of your magical mysteries.

But you Omniscient One, like my next glass of red, are just completely incapable of showing up, isn’t it?

[KenW]

Day 11

Stern examiners take note, for the current malaise ridden teetotaler has passed the most stringent test. Last evening I was laid up against the sword, but unlike for Caesar, the blades stayed sheathed and I remained unsullied and sober as a judge’s dungeoned moll. I went with the Hound to three bars over a period of about five hours, watching the world go by, looking on bemused as the joint I had advised him was Saigon’s best chance for pickup and perving refused to gather clientele, hung onto its disco thumping cacophony uncontaminated by custom, except for a dozen or so very ordinary, and often quite aged, GGs. Not a LB in sight. H had been on a horrific train journey all day and night, and was heading for Cambodge at sparrow fart on the morrow, this morning as I write, so it was early night plans for him anyway. He had but a few beers while we gossiped away. My Saigon lived up to its reputation for dullness and lack of colour for first time visitors. A few whores solicited along the street from H’s hotel, but that was it.

But make careful observations O scanners of detail: I sat on a bottle of mineral water all evening. I swooned as I smelt the beer on H’s breath, when he gave out one of his belly laughs or said something that made me draw closer to hear through my geriatric deafness and the machine noise that passes for music these days. But I never flinched. My resolve was something to behold. It is quite amazing what a driving force fear can be. Et tu Ken teaser.

[williethepimp]

Day 11

Stern examiners take note, for the current malaise ridden teetotaler has passed the most stringent test. Last evening I was laid up against the sword, but unlike for Caesar, the blades stayed sheathed and I remained unsullied and sober as a judge’s dungeoned moll. I went with the Hound to three bars over a period of about five hours, watching the world go by, looking on bemused as the joint I had advised him was Saigon’s best chance for pickup and perving refused to gather clientele, hung onto its disco thumping cacophony uncontaminated by custom, except for a dozen or so very ordinary, and often quite aged, GGs. Not a LB in sight. H had been on a horrific train journey all day and night, and was heading for Cambodge at sparrow fart on the morrow, this morning as I write, so it was early night plans for him anyway. He had but a few beers while we gossiped away. My Saigon lived up to its reputation for dullness and lack of colour for first time visitors. A few whores solicited along the street from H’s hotel, but that was it.

But make careful observations O scanners of detail: I sat on a bottle of mineral water all evening. I swooned as I smelt the beer on H’s breath, when he gave out one of his belly laughs or said something that made me draw closer to hear through my geriatric deafness and the machine noise that passes for music these days. But I never flinched. My resolve was something to behold. It is quite amazing what a driving force fear can be. Et tu Ken teaser.

good on you Ken,nursing your mineral water.....no pain ,no gain remember.....at the moment its (nearly) all pain for you.....but it will pass.Fear indeed is a wonderful driving force.......an old friend of mine used to say"I will listen to advice.....but pain,I OBEY "-55555

Don't forget to take those vitamin B12 tabs,and start eating a few sweets or chocolates also.....and remember ,like Nancy Reagan,just say NO.

[Lefty]

good on you Ken,nursing your mineral water.....no pain ,no gain remember.....at the moment its (nearly) all pain for you.....but it will pass.Fear indeed is a wonderful driving force.......an old friend of mine used to say"I will listen to advice.....but pain,I OBEY "-55555

Don't forget to take those vitamin B12 tabs,and start eating a few sweets or chocolates also.....and remember ,like Nancy Reagan,just say NO.

If B12 really helps those who are detoxing, which I don't doubt, just never studied on detoxing before, then B12 tabs are by far the least efficient way to take it. Don't know about Vietnam, but in Thailand, B12 injectable, is dirt cheap and sooooooo much more effective, it is well worth the effort. I would buy it from the pharmacy near Avenue Mall, and go to a clinic on Soi 16 once or twice a week, depending how run down I felt, pay eighty baht for them to give the shot, and get jabbed in the butt cheek. 1000 mcg per shot. I cannot recall how cheap a bottle of B12 is, for 10 doses, but it was so cheap my jaw dropped in shock and awe...like why am I just discovering this hidden gem in the world of Thai pharmacology? I only found it for sale last Feb/Mar time frame.

The next best way to take B12 is sublingual tabs, or use a spray inside the mouth that is held to be absorbed through the cheeks and not swallowed.

Also, why does sublingual have a red line under it, to indicate a misspelled word????? Also, why when I type the number eighty using the numerals 8 and 0, it comes out like this? 80 Another stupid fucking smiley face.

B12 tabs to just be swallowed are ok only if no other methods of consuming are available.

Disclaimer: I am not a doctor or paid medical professional, although I did play doctor a lot as a child....

[rxpharm]

You are better off taking vitamin B1 tablets - 100 mg once daily for about a week, as well as a multivitamin tablet once daily for about the same time.

This is some of the general protocol used when alcoholics come to our hospital - but of course they're in worse condition and sometimes need to take it via intravenous injection.

Continue to soldier on - certainly it is difficult, but it sounds like you are past some of the harder stages now.

[Lefty]

Why better off taking B1 than B12? From my studies, it appears B1 in RDA doses and above are found in many more foods than a decent amount of B12 is. Considering Ken liked his booze a lot, unless he ate beef liver regularly, he is probably deficient in B12. Alcohol depletes B12 from your system from what I've read. The food that is by far the highest in B12 is liver. Which many people don't like.

I think he can benefit from B12 shots.

Alcohol depletes B1 too, but I think it is easier to get enough B1 from a diet rich in whole grains, eggs, etc.

Why not take the multivitamin and extra B1 and B12 both?

[rxpharm]

Lefty the reason why vitamin B1 is more important is because of this:

Wernicke’s encephalopathy (WE)

Wernicke’s encephalopathy (WE) is a reversible biochemical lesion of the CNS caused by overwhelming metabolic demands being made upon depleted B-vitamin reserves, in particular thiamine. WE is most common in chronic alcohol misusers.

5.1 Causes and presentations of WE

5.1.1 Causes

Whilst manifestations of B-vitamin deficiency such as beriberi are the result of a prolonged and gradual deficiency, Wernicke’s encephalopathy results from the development of an acute and severe CNS deficiency state where overwhelming demands are made on already depleted B-vitamin reserves, in particular thiamine (Thomson 2000).

5.1.2 Potential routes to brain cell death

B-vitamins are essential for the proper metabolism of glucose and the production of adenosine triphosphate (ATP) and neurotransmitters such as acetylcholine, GABA and glutamate (Butterworth 1989, Cook 1998, Todd 1999). ATP turnover is depressed by alcohol intoxication but when alcohol intake is abruptly discontinued the compensatory changes can produce signs of CNS overactivity (Turner 1989). As a result, CNS B-vitamin requirements increase during acute alcohol withdrawal.

There are a number of potential routes to brain cell death in Wernicke’s encephalopathy:

5.1.2.1 Lactic acidosis

Thiamine deficiency may result in a reduced conversion of pyruvate to acetyl coenzyme A, with accumulation of lactate and a focal lactic acidosis (Butterworth 1989, Todd 1999).

5.1.2.2 Neuro-excitotoxicity

Thiamine is also a co-factor for the conversion of α-ketoglutarate to succinate. In thiamine deficiency citric acid cycle metabolism may continue by bypassing this step through glutamate and GABA metabolism which, in health, accounts for 8-10% of citric acid cycle activity (Baxter 1976, Butterworth 1989, McEntee 1997, Todd 1999).

Many patients are, however, also deficient in pyridoxine (B6) and riboflavin (B2) which are co-factors for the conversion of the excitatory neurotransmitter glutamate to the inhibitory neurotransmitter GABA (Cook 1998, Ryle 1984). So, neuro-excitotoxicity may result from either pyridoxine or riboflavin deficiency and a resulting imbalance between excitation and inhibition.

5.1.2.3 Free radical generation

Glutamate accumulation may also increase production of free radicals (Todd 1999).

5.1.2.4 Cellular energy deficit

In addition, B-vitamin deficiency may also result in a reduced rate of citric acid cycle metabolism and a cellular energy deficit (Butterworth 1989, Todd 1999).

This is a quote from Newcastle on Tyne (NHS) alcohol withdrawal treatment protocol, which is quite similar to the one we use as well.

Vitamin B12 deficiency may be problematic as well, but it is not as an acute problem as vitamin B1 - which if not taken may lead with Wernicke's encephalopathy.

Sublingual has a red line under it only while composing the post because it is not in the spell check dictionary.

Your suggestion of taking both is a good idea, but vitamin B1 would be more crucial in an acute withdrawal situation.

[williethepimp]

You are better off taking vitamin B1 tablets - 100 mg once daily for about a week, as well as a multivitamin tablet once daily for about the same time.

This is some of the general protocol used when alcoholics come to our hospital - but of course they're in worse condition and sometimes need to take it via intravenous injection.

Continue to soldier on - certainly it is difficult, but it sounds like you are past some of the harder stages now.

I'll bow to your superior knowledge on this RX-its a few years since I was on the B12 (or was it B1)....can't exactly remember.....

would it do Ken any harm to take both?......anyway Ken,as it sez in the song"hang on in there baby...."

[Jimslim]

Take the juice of a Ballinderry onion every morning .

[KenW]

Day 17

Where do you go when you’re not drinking? I mean I do not mean places of physical or emotional support, in the real world, like AA or allied organizations, or taking up golf, or billiards, heaven forbid, one could never do those without a drink could one, seriously, I mean tell me with a straight face you are capable of a full round of golf without a drink, or that teetering a stick at silly little plastic balls on a table, fine fun when your half tanked and the company’s jovial, but when you’re not, and they’re not, hoo wee, where do I mean, I mean using the resources of an adventurous mind, where do you go, I am discovering I go nowhere, I retreat into solemnity, into a dour kind of otiosity that leads with punctuation to neither boredom nor solace, but just sits there, as if it is some mind numbed dragonfly on my balcony rail, staring at me with its giant globular multi-faceted eyes, looking back at me, seeming for all intents like it wants to blink, but of course its arthropodean organs have neither eyelids nor the slyness of a wink in mind, much less an innocent blink, and so like Clifford Geertz they cannot tell a Berber’s joke about a sheep stealer from a malevolent tale about same, because a joke’s a joke after all, and without the comforting trappings of culture we are all left staring at the dragonfly wondering what it had for breakfast, taking it literally, or perhaps, has it ever seen a northern summertime in the Arctic tundra, well it may never have, and what’s more it cares not a fig, the way in my dry time I care not a fig for things that I shouldn’t care about, and care too much, way too much, for things that I should care about, thence I go nowhere, I’m physically there, I can still look down and sigh at my beer belly, which despite this dry time will not go away I bet, for it has not given up a gram thus far, leaving it a mystery to be solved by a Nero Wolfe, after he has watered his orchids and drunk his fresh orange juice, of hoodunnit laying on the fat, was it im or er, none of the above, but the rich uncle’s ex-wife, that’s for sure, the one none of us ever suspected, so I go nowhere, just as the fat goes nowhere, and my mind dries up, like an ancient parchment, or like the freak show cunt on a post-op ladyboy, for where do her juices come from, certainly not from her natural physiology, that’s for sure and certain, the surgeon perhaps inserts a tube of sterilized jello and sews it in there to ooze when required with foreplaying pressure, and maybe they have to go back every year or so, like a well tuned car, for a grease and oil change, but unlike them my soul merely dries up, despite all that, to parallel my mind, and between the two of them they telex me a set of messages, reminding me of a fifty year old teletype, clattering and clanking out messages like a mechanical typewriter in the hands of a Hemingway or a Hammett, five hundred polished words a day, that was Papa’s rule of thumb, always in the mornings, well trained journalist that he was, then it was off to the cantina, especially in the younger days in Cuba and Spain, followed by respectively the fishing boat or the bullring, but none of that is relevant to me, so why am I blithering on about it, because I’m stuck, that’s why, because I cannot escape this rat trap I’m in, between yesterday and tomorrow, called today, and I’ve seen all these rodents before somehow, all the todays you can muster, like Rowdy Yates with his herd, or at least that’s how it feels, for one day without a drink is as bad as any other without a drink, is that not the case, they moo and they low, like they’ve all got four legs and ticks, and they kick up some kind of dustbowl in my brain, clouding my sanity with thoughts of naked ladyboys with suberect cocks who shun me because to them I am sober and completely without either fun or interest, despite the size of the big fat thing laying limp across my lap, called my wallet, so I go on, hoping, despite at dawn it merely turning into a today, that there is a tomorrow…

[williethepimp]

Day 17

Where do you go when you’re not drinking? I mean I do not mean places of physical or emotional support, in the real world, like AA or allied organizations, or taking up golf, or billiards, heaven forbid, one could never do those without a drink could one, seriously, I mean tell me with a straight face you are capable of a full round of golf without a drink, or that teetering a stick at silly little plastic balls on a table, fine fun when your half tanked and the company’s jovial, but when you’re not, and they’re not, hoo wee, where do I mean, I mean using the resources of an adventurous mind, where do you go, I am discovering I go nowhere, I retreat into solemnity, into a dour kind of otiosity that leads with punctuation to neither boredom nor solace, but just sits there, as if it is some mind numbed dragonfly on my balcony rail, staring at me with its giant globular multi-faceted eyes, looking back at me, seeming for all intents like it wants to blink, but of course its arthropodean organs have neither eyelids nor the slyness of a wink in mind, much less an innocent blink, and so like Clifford Geertz they cannot tell a Berber’s joke about a sheep stealer from a malevolent tale about same, because a joke’s a joke after all, and without the comforting trappings of culture we are all left staring at the dragonfly wondering what it had for breakfast, taking it literally, or perhaps, has it ever seen a northern summertime in the Arctic tundra, well it may never have, and what’s more it cares not a fig, the way in my dry time I care not a fig for things that I shouldn’t care about, and care too much, way too much, for things that I should care about, thence I go nowhere, I’m physically there, I can still look down and sigh at my beer belly, which despite this dry time will not go away I bet, for it has not given up a gram thus far, leaving it a mystery to be solved by a Nero Wolfe, after he has watered his orchids and drunk his fresh orange juice, of hoodunnit laying on the fat, was it im or er, none of the above, but the rich uncle’s ex-wife, that’s for sure, the one none of us ever suspected, so I go nowhere, just as the fat goes nowhere, and my mind dries up, like an ancient parchment, or like the freak show cunt on a post-op ladyboy, for where do her juices come from, certainly not from her natural physiology, that’s for sure and certain, the surgeon perhaps inserts a tube of sterilized jello and sews it in there to ooze when required with foreplaying pressure, and maybe they have to go back every year or so, like a well tuned car, for a grease and oil change, but unlike them my soul merely dries up, despite all that, to parallel my mind, and between the two of them they telex me a set of messages, reminding me of a fifty year old teletype, clattering and clanking out messages like a mechanical typewriter in the hands of a Hemingway or a Hammett, five hundred polished words a day, that was Papa’s rule of thumb, always in the mornings, well trained journalist that he was, then it was off to the cantina, especially in the younger days in Cuba and Spain, followed by respectively the fishing boat or the bullring, but none of that is relevant to me, so why am I blithering on about it, because I’m stuck, that’s why, because I cannot escape this rat trap I’m in, between yesterday and tomorrow, called today, and I’ve seen all these rodents before somehow, all the todays you can muster, like Rowdy Yates with his herd, or at least that’s how it feels, for one day without a drink is as bad as any other without a drink, is that not the case, they moo and they low, like they’ve all got four legs and ticks, and they kick up some kind of dustbowl in my brain, clouding my sanity with thoughts of naked ladyboys with suberect cocks who shun me because to them I am sober and completely without either fun or interest, despite the size of the big fat thing laying limp across my lap, called my wallet, so I go on, hoping, despite at dawn it merely turning into a today, that there is a tomorrow…

Oh Dear!You do seem in the doldrums Ken.....I always found it easy to stay off the drink when I had a drink to look forward to,ie at the end of the working day,the weekend,xmas or whatever.Your abstinence seems joyless ,probably because you don't have a finishing date for your self imposed sobriety.

They say S-O-B-E-R stands for Son of a Bitch Everything is Real.....55555-A lifetime of dulling the pain of life becomes brutally painful when the anaesthetic of choice is taken away.The trick is to replace the drinking with something else(you already know this)

But your question is....with what????

I read a book once called "the grass arena" ,about a "hopeless/helpless! " alcoholic who discovered chess during one of his numerous prison sentences.From being a down and out on the streets of London,he became a leading amateur player,with his games being featured in the London Evening Standard.He replaced one addiction for another.The "spiritual" dimension he was seeking in alcohol,he found in chess.There was no God involved,just something that gave him a meaning in life....

Chess never worked for me,but I had to find something to consume my time ,the time I spent in the pub.I wrote a play(never published)...composed a library(?) of family fotos...re-watched movies I'd seen before(they weren't as I'd remembered!)....I even went tenpin bowling(whisper that)....the pain got less,and I even began to enjoy life without the booze(eventually).......

You'll have to find your own diversions Ken,but it can be done.......write that book that's in each of us....you could write a modern day "lolita" or "the story of O" with a vietnamese twist....kill some of that time that seems to be killing you.....You will find an outlet once you let your creative juices flow....anyway.....keep on saying "no thanx" whenever youre offered booze....NO is such a great word.

[pacman]

Excellent advice from Willie there Ken.

It would appear you need to get your serotonin levels up, now that you are no longer stimulating the central cortex or the cerebellum or wherever the alcohol releases the endorphins that you crave so much now.

It is a shame you lack a strong local support network, there is nothing like a group of friends to gee you up, get you laughing & take your mind off being a miserable sod.

Would it help if you started a routine of watching comedy classics? There are verified reports of people laughing themselves well from major sickness simply by watching old comedy films.

I know you don't have an illness but it seems intuitive to me that 3 or 4 hours a day spent laughing must be better than going up the wall with boredom & remorse.

There are many wonderful books that you could easily become engrossed in. Have you tried reading? It might be hard for the first day or two but it is another form of escape.

[KenW]

We are the hollow me

We are the stuffed me

And life without It is

Shape without form, shade without colour,

Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed

With roadmap eyes, to drink’s other kingdom

Remember me – if at all – not as a lost

Violent soul, but only

As the hollow me

The stuffed me.

The eyes are not here

There are no eyes here

In this valley of dying stars

In this hollow valley

This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms.

This is the dead land

This is cactus land

Here the stone images

Are raised, here they receive

Nil supplications from a drunk man’s hand.

This is the way the worst ends

This is the way the worst ends

This is the way the worst ends

Not with a bang but a whimper.

For the dry, the abstention, the detox, like Mistah Kurtz – he dead.

I am failure, but gathered together once more for the breach, my friends.

(Embarrassed apologia to TS Eliot)