You would be, too.

I have escaped, tonight.
Into some foxhole of comfort, walls as thin as paper but somehow 
I'll take it.
I'll take anything fucking anything that doesn't feel like that.

Meditate?
You meditate, motherfucker we are so far gone beyond meditating when all of the wall have eyes and you can smell blood with your fingers and you dream waking dreams of glass and mud and tiny saw-teeth grins and bandages...
You meditate.

I can't be in my skin, anymore, man.
My soul hurts.

My body has been telling me, shouting at me, screaming at me all day:

FUCKING LEAVE.

Only, I can't.
None of us can, that isn't an option so where else do I go?
I've a body committing mutiny, a mind trapped in a faraway place and I'll go anywhere but here.
So, we got another earthquake.
Another tide to ride out
Figure it out. Back me into a corner, got windows to my left and a bottle to my right, I'll take the bottle sir.  This is why I'm drunk.  It's just easier, and: given the same memories, you'd be fucking drunk, too.

Tell me you wouldn't be drunk, too.