addiction never goes away, it lies dormant…

This past February, I celebrated two years of sobriety – two years free from the hangover, humiliation, and heartbreak that comes from such a destructive, abusive relationship. And while my friends applauded my strength, I would have given anything from a bottle, a glass, of red wine. After fourteen years of binge drinking, it took two to pine for my long lost friend. I had been coasting; I had become complacent in my sobriety, because I didn’t have the urge to drink until I experienced a series of loses that would nearly resemble the pain I felt after losing my mother over a decade before. My father and I stopped speaking, which had been a long-time coming, I felt lost in terms of my career because my film project was moving at a snail’s pace (as that business tends to do), and amidst a terrible economy, the worst I’ve known, I found myself jobless and confused. For the first time in a long while I didn’t have a love but wanted it. The novel wasn’t coming as quickly as I would’ve liked and the pressure, pressure, pressure was getting to me. And when I tried to open my mouth no sound came out. My friends had grown concerned – would I return to that dark country, my former self? Would they need to watch over me like a parent does a small child, making sure that I didn’t reach for that lone glass of wine half-filled? I wanted to scream no, no, no. I just need you to listen; I don’t need you to save me.

After a friend’s birthday party, I found myself walking alone, mouthing your basic instructions aloud. Walk to 14th street. Pull out your Metrocard. Get on the subway. Walk the 10 minutes home. Put your key in the door and your head on your pillow. Make no stops. No stops. The urge to self-medicate and live a life anesthetized was that great. It consumes you, swallows you whole. And while I didn’t need to go back to therapy, I just wanted someone to listen. I’d learn that your body isn’t a box built to house an unlimited amount of sorrow. That one day the box would explode and it was unlikely that you could walk away, undamaged. I knew I couldn’t go back, but I just wanted someone to hear me without panicking.

For years I called AA a cult, simply for the fact that I had met so many 13-steppers, people who were arrogant in their sobriety and mocked any other way other than AA. I dated someone once who said in that patronizing tone I had grown to hate: you’re going to drink again. You know that, right? I wanted to punch him all the way back to his “rooms.” I eschewed the chanting, the rules, the delivering yourself to something other, and my therapist, for years, kept trying to tell me that they were just words that can be replaced with other words. And what was so wrong with words and maxims that gave someone comfort? That helped them not drink? But I wasn’t open, until yesterday.

A new friend of mine, who is similar to me in more ways that I had thought, was kind enough to give me this terrific gift – her safe meeting. I told her beforehand that I wouldn’t speak, I simply wanted to listen. I would give the thing to which I had mocked a fair chance. I was unbelievably frightened and held my coffee like a security blanket. And for the first fifteen minutes, I listened, unmoved, maybe a little bored, until a woman spoke her “share.” I looked up from my coffee at her face – fragile, in a wash of pain, and listened as she echoed a lot of what I had been feeling – immense fear of the unknown. How the basics of living – brushing one’s teeth, getting on the subway – had become arduous. And her pain was acute and real and raw, and I found myself shaking a little, trying so hard to restrain tears because not only did I feel for this woman who was truly struggling, but I knew exactly how she felt. I heard people who didn’t like to ask for help, struggled with it, and I kept nodding because this was me too. And when it came to me, I found myself speaking through choked sobs.

I hadn’t intended this vulnerability. In real life I’m quite good at putting on my bravest face, but not in this room. They could see right through me. And all these random words tumbled out, sentences in incoherent fragments, and I realized that I was still hurt and angry with my father, and although I’ve been privileged with some extraordinary events this past year, leaving a life I had known for so long (corporate job, a day of regimented structure) was much like leaving my relationship with red wine, behind. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, my days, and I just wanted something, anything, to fill the empty spaces. For the great deal of my life I used drinking as a way to deal with jubilance and failure, happiness and despair, and here I was – a walking open wound.

And then I was done with my share and I felt better. Someone in the room, 20 days sober after breaking a year and half of sobriety without AA, looked directly at me, said my name, and said she felt exactly as I did. I wasn’t used to a stranger feeling as if they know me because I’m incredibly guarded. But then I had to face the fact that this person actually did know a big part of me, because this, an alcoholic trying to better her life, was who she was too. After, three women approached me and hugged me. I wasn’t used to such affection and unconditional, unpanicked support, but I found I needed it. They gave me their numbers and encouraged me to call if I needed to talk, and they hoped I’d come back.

I think I will go back because it’s awfully nice to go somewhere and listen and share and be your real and most afraid self.

This entry was posted on Thursday, May 21st, 2009 at 7:46 am and is filed under daily murmurs. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.