Revisiting Prohibition: Rant

I'm sick of feeling like I'm disabled because I'm an alcoholic.

I'm sick of having to vet every situation before I enter it.

I'm sick of seeing that look of either pity or guilt on people's faces when I tell them about "my problem."

I'm sick of thinking about it all the time.

And I'm sick of not doing what I want to do.

(No relapse afoot here. Just needed to vent.)

Like Magic

About three weeks ago, I ran into an old nemesis.

I drank. I felt guilty and a little dehydrated the next day. Other than that, I escaped unscathed. I have not drunk since.

I’ve discussed my drinking problem elsewhere online. One individual known for her tough love registered concern about my attitude. “You seem to have the idea that you drank and got away with it,” she wrote, “No big deal.”

She’s right; I do think I got away with it. What I’m unclear about, however, is how I got away and what “it” actually is.

I just finished reading The Year of Magical Thinking. In the book, the narrator describes her inability to throw away her late husband’s shoes. When he comes back, he’ll need shoes, won’t he? Such chimeras are a part of grief. They give voice to that chunk of the self that wants to deny that some situations are irreversible. This chunk tries to be like Superman in the 1970s movie; it wants to spin the planet backward and save Lois Lane from the earthquake.

Recovering alcoholics talk about “crossing the line.” The line represents when your drinking stops being fun, when there are (all of a sudden, it seems) serious consequences to drinking in the way that you do. You start missing work, for example, or you start enduring more aggressive hangovers. You start sabotaging your relationships. You start experiencing panic attacks. You start getting arrested. You start feeling like dying is okay.

Recognizing that one has crossed the line causes grief. Recovering alcoholics sometimes express the remorseful desire for life to go back to the way it was; they want to return to being the people they were before they became alcoholics. Because I drank for so many years without consequence, I’ve shared this grief acutely.

Just before I stopped drinking, I was miserable. I understood that I could not go on living this way. After I had been sober a little while, I noticed a number of pleasing changes. I was cheerier. I was more relaxed. I was more conscious of others. I liked all of these developments. I also remembered that life could be interesting and exciting without drinking; this fact had been eluding me.

Then, I attended a Special Occasion. A really special occasion, one not likely to be repeated. I sat in candlelight at a table with new friends. Servers poured wine. As I watched this happening, I thought, “You can choose to look beyond this local moment and see the big picture. You can choose to be the enlightened person, the strong person.”

I didn’t want to be strong and enlightened. I wanted to be like everyone else. I gave the pouring waitress a nod of assent.

Did the universe give me a break? Did I cheat destiny?

Nothing about this momentary return has gone the way recovering alcoholics have said it would:

“If you relapse, it will be worse. You’ll pick up right where you left off.”

“Going back ‘out’ is never worth it.”

“For us, to drink is to die.”

Holistic recovery from alcoholism seems to depend upon turning alcohol into an all-powerful demon. Maybe we are not really addicted to drinking but to absolutes.

Lately, I’ve heard myself say, “See? You can drink without a hassle. You successfully bent the rules. Why not try it again?”

Instead of doing this, though, I sip my lemon-lime soda and remember that even Joan Didion cannot perform magic.

Pirate Update, etc.

Sad, isn't it?

While I'm at it, here are some additional updates:

• I received a pass on my dissertation proposal.
• Noir said that the fallout from his prom night strip bar debacle was not as bad as he had feared.
• Zen sitting requires work.
• I'm still not drinking.
• Glasses Girl has not made frequent reappearances, but it does happen occasionally.

The Ex-Wife

 

Alcohol and I are getting a divorce.

Ours was a passionate attachment. I used to crawl inside her liquid pouch like a little kangaroo. I told her my most private thoughts, my most secret fears. She made me feel good.

We went everywhere together. I took her to elegant lounges where we luxuriated on plush stools and under low lights. Or I brought her to shady places with darts and graffiti on the walls; we liked slumming it. We also stayed home quite a bit, curled up on the couch together, massaging my delicate melancholy.

We laughed so many times. I remember joy and exuberance—every sip was Carnaval. If she had been real, I would have followed her anywhere, through any crowd of lesser revelers. I would have scanned the streets for the swish of her raiment and strained my ears for the chimes of her voice. It probably sounded like wet fingers circling a wine glass’s thin circumference.

She was my little deceiver. It was amazing what she could make me forget: my skull burning like an iron forge, bile coating the inside of my mouth, and the conviction that if I shifted even a millimeter my flesh would split open like a water balloon.

After a few hours, though, I wouldn’t remember how she abused me. Invariably, she forgave me for being so hard on her. Making up was very, very sweet.

She wasn’t who she pretended. She didn’t want what was best for me. In fact, the worse everything got, the more I relied upon her: exactly her office. She became misery’s cause and balm.

It’s possible that I liked the suffering. I have heard about people’s repetition compulsion, i.e., doing the same idiotic, destructive things over and over. Why repeat behavior that brings you pain? Well, as a friend pointed out, we’ve all met someone who makes imprudent object choices, again and again and again. That must be me.

Her hands used to rest softly on my shoulders. But her grip tightened, and I was no longer free to move. She dug in her nails, and I couldn’t pry her off.

She dragged me to a precipice. I had a choice. I could let her take us over the edge, and we could sail into an infinite cerulean sky that would render it difficult to tell where she ended and I began. I would be so wasted that I wouldn’t even feel the crash. I wouldn’t feel my back break or my soul snap. Or I could step back and walk away.

It hasn’t been the cleanest of separations. There is no way we can be friends. Nonetheless, we are connected, like two cells weaving a scar.