When 9 A.M. Felt Like Salvation

The shaking started in Mike’s hands first. He held them out in front of him and watched his fingers tremble against his will, as if some invisible current ran through his bones. He pressed his palms against his thighs, trying to still them, but the tremors only traveled deeper, radiating up through his arms and into his chest.

It was 4:47 a.m. He knew this because he’d been checking his phone obsessively since 3:30, watching the minutes crawl toward 9:00 a.m.—when the ABC store opened, when salvation became available for $12.99 plus tax.

By the second day of withdrawal, his whole body seemed to vibrate from within. He gripped the edge of the bathroom sink and watched himself in the mirror—his jaw clenched tight, his skin pale and slick with sweat. The reflection shuddered and blurred. He couldn’t tell if the mirror was shaking or if it was just him.

The tremors took his legs next, and with them, his ability to move through the world. He stood up from the bed and immediately felt his knees buckle and sway. His legs shook so violently that each step became a negotiation with gravity. He reached for the wall, then the doorframe, then anything solid, but his hands trembled too badly to grip properly.

Walking to the bathroom—fifteen feet away—became an expedition that could take twenty minutes, and sometimes he simply couldn’t make it at all.

The cramps seized him without warning. His calf would suddenly lock up, the muscle bunching into a rock-hard knot that sent white-hot pain shooting up his leg. He’d gasp and grab at it, trying to massage it out, but his shaking hands couldn’t apply enough pressure.

5:23 a.m. Three hours and thirty-seven minutes until the store opened.

That’s when he remembered the mouthwash.

He crawled—actually crawled on his hands and knees because standing was impossible—to the bathroom. Pulled himself up using the sink. Opened the medicine cabinet with trembling fingers.

Listerine Cool Mint. The label said 21.6% alcohol. He’d looked it up once, during a previous morning like this one, when the math of desperation had become the only math that mattered.

He unscrewed the cap. The antiseptic smell made his stomach lurch, but his hands were shaking so badly now that he couldn’t hold a thought beyond make it stop make it stop make it stop.

The first swallow was torture. Mouthwash isn’t meant to be swallowed—the burning, the chemical taste, the way his body immediately tried to reject it. He gripped the sink and forced himself to keep it down. Waited. Counted to sixty. Took another swallow.

His stomach cramped, adding a new layer to the symphony of pain already playing through his body. But he knew—he knew—that if he could just keep enough down, if he could just metabolize enough of that 21.6% alcohol, the tremors would ease. The cramping would loosen. He’d be able to stand long enough to make it to 9 a.m.

6:15 a.m.

The mouthwash was helping. Not much. Not enough. But the shaking in his hands had decreased from violent to merely constant. He could hold his phone without dropping it. Small victories in the geography of rock bottom.

He’d done this before. Three times? Four? He’d lost count. Each time telling himself never again, each time swearing this was the actual bottom, each time finding out there was further to fall.

The cramping seized him again at 6:45 a.m. His calf locked up so hard he cried out, a sound somewhere between a scream and a sob. He tried to straighten his leg, pointing his toes up toward his shin, but another cramp hit the other leg before the first had fully released.

Both calves seized at once, and he lay there on the bathroom floor, writhing, unable to stand, unable to stretch them out, his body locked in its own private torture. The muscles in his feet cramped too, his toes curling under so hard he thought they might break.

Another swallow of mouthwash. Then another. The bottle was half empty now. His mouth was raw, his throat burned, his stomach threatened rebellion. But the alternative—another two hours of this hell—was unthinkable.

7:30 a.m.

He’d stopped vomiting. The mouthwash was staying down, and with it, just enough alcohol to keep him from seizing. Not enough to stop shaking entirely. Not enough to actually feel human. Just enough to survive until 9:00.

He pulled himself back to the bedroom, collapsed on the bed. Watched the ceiling spin. His heart hammered against his ribs. Every nerve ending felt raw and exposed. The sheets felt like sandpaper against his skin.

8:00 a.m.

One more hour.

He thought about calling someone. His mother. Monique. Someone who might care that he was lying here drinking mouthwash to stave off withdrawal. Someone who might help.

But help meant admitting this was happening. Help meant explaining why a grown man was too sick to walk but could somehow crawl to the bathroom for Listerine. Help meant seeing himself through someone else’s eyes—and what they’d see was too shameful to contemplate.

8:15 a.m.

The mouthwash bottle was empty now. He’d drunk the whole thing. 1.5 liters of Listerine Cool Mint, 21.6% alcohol, approximately equivalent to drinking half a bottle of wine. Enough to keep the worst of the tremors at bay. Not enough to stop them entirely.

His legs still shook. His hands still trembled. The cramps still came in waves. But he could stand now—shakily, holding onto furniture, but standing. He could walk to the bathroom without his legs giving out completely.

8:45 a.m.

Fifteen minutes.

He found his wallet. Counted the cash with shaking fingers. Twenty-three dollars. Enough for a fifth of cheap vodka with a few dollars left over. He pulled on sweatpants and a hoodie, not bothering with a shower because the idea of standing under running water for that long was impossible.

The liquor store was three blocks away. On a normal day, a five-minute walk. Today it might take fifteen.

8:58 a.m.

He stood outside the ABC store, watching through the window as the clerk moved toward the door. His hands gripped the door frame to keep himself upright. His legs shook. His whole body vibrated with tremors the mouthwash could only partially suppress.

But he was here. He’d made it.

The lock clicked. The door opened.

“Morning,” the clerk said, not quite looking at him. They’d seen him before. Knew what 9 a.m. customers looked like. Knew better than to ask questions.

Mike’s shaking hands somehow managed to grip the bottle—Smirnoff, plastic handle, $12.99. Managed to hand over the cash. Managed to walk outside without falling.

He unscrewed the cap before he’d even made it off the sidewalk. Took a long pull. The vodka burned, but not like the mouthwash had. This was familiar. This was right. This was what his body had been screaming for since 3:30 a.m.

By the time he made it back to his apartment, the shaking had started to subside. The cramping eased. His heart rate began to slow. The tremors didn’t disappear entirely—wouldn’t disappear entirely for hours yet—but they retreated enough that he could breathe, could think, could exist in his body without feeling like it was trying to kill him.

He sat on the edge of his bed, the bottle between his knees, and took another drink.

4:47 a.m. to 9:00 a.m. Four hours and thirteen minutes of hell, bridged by a bottle of mouthwash and the certain knowledge that this would happen again. Tomorrow. Next week. Next month. Whenever he tried to stop, whenever the money ran out, whenever the world insisted he couldn’t spend every waking hour drunk.

The mouthwash wasn’t the bottom. It was just another layer of the descent, another innovation in the architecture of addiction.

The bottom—the real bottom—was still ahead of him.

But for now, the liquor store was open, and his hands had finally stopped shaking enough to hold the bottle steady.

For now, that counted as salvation.

This happened more times than I can count, in more places than I can remember. The details changed—sometimes it was Scope instead of Listerine, sometimes the store opened at 8 a.m. instead of 9—but the desperation was always the same. I’m writing this now, four years sober, not to glorify that time but to honor the truth: addiction takes you places you never imagined you’d go. And sometimes, finding your way back requires remembering exactly how far down you fell.