Happy Hour at the O.K. Corral
A gas stove clicks, and a haggard woman with quaking hands leans over to light her cigarette with the meager flame. She takes a long drag. Her fingers, with scraped remnants of blue nail polish, finally slow their trembling and her breathing becomes less rapid. Behind her is a sink full of dirty dishes, caked with the remains of canned food. The trailer is dim all throughout because she keeps the lights off to lower the electric bill—or the bill hasn’t been paid in months and there is no electricity to speak of. Her thin frame is draped in a cheap sweater, but her knuckles and her cheekbones give away her emaciation. The meat is coming back to her bones, though. The high-sodium beans are helping. The dark brown roots of her box-blonde hair have grown out down to her ear lobes, and the rest of it hasn’t seen a brush in weeks.
The cigarette comes to and from her lips as if her arm were mechanical. Her sunken eyes stare at the opposite wall, and we see abstract uneasiness in them. She’s thinking about her children that are living elsewhere. She’s wondering how she will get a job with her work history and criminal record. She’s racking her brain to think of a family member or a friend that she hasn’t exploited yet, that she can call to just chat with… and maybe ask to borrow some money. She’s thinking about her massive web of problems, complications, setbacks, and obstacles that she has to get through before she can even begin to attain some fragment of a normal life, and that thought is overwhelming.
Mostly, she is thinking about using. She is thinking about where she would get junk: if her plug was still around or if she’d have to find someone else. Could she find a way to do it without her parole officer finding out? If so, how? Screw it, it doesn’t matter. If she starts using, she’ll keep using and they’ll find out eventually. She doesn’t have the money for syringes and it’s a long walk to the shelter that gives them away for free. Sharing is stupid, but someone is always willing to share. Shit. If she doesn’t have the money for the needles then she doesn’t have the money for dope either. She could go to the local truck stop, find a John, make a little cash. Somebody there would definitely know someone else who deals. She could make friends—get a joint motel room—live in one of those one room junkie communes again. It smells and the toilet is always clogged, but its an efficient way to stay high all the time without interface.
She tosses her cigarette butt in the sink with the dirty bowls and it hits the water with a hiss. Ten minutes. She knows she can make it ten minutes without running off to get high. She’s been living ten minutes at a time for sixty days now. Its Hell. Why wait ten more minutes? Her mind is made up. She’s going to use tonight. She shoves a BIC lighter into her half-empty carton of Marlboro Lights and hurries out of frame. With our view still on the unkempt kitchenette, we hear the aluminum trailer door screech open, then slap shut.
See? I can write an addict like every TV show writer in Hollywood. It takes twenty minutes, and the American viewer eats it up.
Most stereotypes are stereotypes for a reason, and the behavior of addicts is deliciously predictable. The truth is stranger, and therefore, more entertaining than fiction. Storytellers cannot think-up a character more hopeless, dramatic, plagued, or problematic than an addict, so why even try? Tell the truth and let the epic write itself.
The problem with the truth as it applies to demographics, is that it rarely accounts for the exceptions. Everybody loves a tragedy: like an addict who uses and uses, does every revolting, conceivable act to get drugs or money for drugs then dies of an overdose alone in a motel. Everybody loves a Cinderella story: like an addict who used, and used, and did every revolting, conceivable act to get drugs or money for drugs, then gets clean. They start their own business, get married, have children, live happily ever after, and tell their story to crowds of people who are also addicts to give them hope for what their life could be if they got clean. Nobody wants a story about a relatively tame addict who hit their personal rock bottom and slowly, effectively gained sobriety to live a relatively normal, middleclass life.
Being unrepresented in the media is not new to my people. By “my people” I mean addicts, but I also mean people who suffer from chronic anxiety, panic attacks, depression, episodes of mania, and mild paranoia. We are not few and far between, we are abundant in this day and age. Its not just my personal mental illnesses that are poorly portrayed: you can’t turn on HBO today without seeing an irrational, logicless agoraphobe, or a bipolar monster. I think the strongest aversion I have right now is to a “television panic attack.” The instant something tragic, stressful, or chaotic happens on a show, the person affected begins to shake and hyperventilate, or faint entirely from instant onset of shock.
If I had ever been shown what a real panic attack looks like, I could have saved a lot of money on medical bills trying to figure out what the ever-loving Hell was wrong with me. Alas, there was no portrayal of a functional human being who went through, and survived, an incredibly stressful period of time in their lives. Then, when things were good and calm again, they would be sitting at their desk at work and suddenly feel as if they were having a heart attack. The room would seem to be spinning, their mind and their eyes would somehow be in two different dimensions, and despite having all of their normal strength, be incapable of standing or walking or talking… the most confusing part being that it came (seemingly) out of absolutely nowhere.
Most people are still operating under the impression that depression just means that someone is sad. Nay. Depression shows itself in many, many ways. A person can appear perfectly happy, social, and upbeat in public, but struggling greatly when they are alone. Depression can be as serious as a lack of will to live, or equally as serious as a lack of will to maintain life. A common example is someone who doesn’t get out of bed. What they don’t show, is how deeply that person wants to get out of bed and needs to get things done, but depression creeps into their ear and says, “hah! Why would you bother? You aren’t worth it.”
There is another addict stereotype that I’m not crazy about because, as far as I’ve seen, it is not based in reality. That would be the sustainably sober, sad, pitiable, humiliated, doomed-to-a-life-of-deserved-mediocrity addict. Those just don’t exist.
Sobriety has a learning curve, sure. Not because we had to learn how to be sober, but because we had to learn to how get through life without the buffer of drugs and booze. And sure, the life of someone in early recovery is quite sad and pitiable. Halfway houses, daily meetings, drug tests, breathalyzer tests, empty wallets, and humiliating jobs. We have a personality/attitude that is constantly shifting like a teenager in puberty because we are literally learning how to behave like rational human beings. It’s a melancholy and demeaning period of time in our lives, but it is a very short time. Once we get sober, stay sober, and continue doing so the right way for the right reasons, the only way is up.
Addicts are capable people. Our brains work quickly, our emotions are steadfast, and our dedication to the things we care about is unyielding— those qualities that make us competent are also the reasons we were the perfect prey for addiction. We are committed empaths in a cold, cruel world. Now that we are done drinking about that problem, we endeavor to meet it where it is; not numb it, not fight it, but to keep up with it. We run alongside our biggest flaws and deepest hurts so we can check them when they try to veer into our lane.
Being “pitiable” implies weakness—recovering addicts are many things, but we aren’t fucking weak. We can easily be brought to our knees with the thought of things we did to the ones we love while under the influence, but that is our only sore spot. In every other place, we thrive. We don’t know what we want out of life necessarily, but we know what we don’t want: to fall back into active addiction. Avoiding that outcome requires constant upkeep of the successful parts of our existence. That objective not only repels addiction itself, it repels the anxiety, it repels the depression, it repels the low self-esteem and every other negative emotion or chemical imbalance that contributed to making us the formerly miserable people that we were.
I’ve said this before, but the best thing that someone can say to a recovering addict is “I see you.” As in, “I see what you are doing, I see what you have done, I see how hard you are working. I see how important it is to you that you do all that you can to show everyone the person you truly are and to abolish the monster that addiction made you appear to be.” Of course, any words of support and encouragement are appreciated and heavily cherished. I love it when people let me know that I am loved, I love it when people tell me to “hang it there!”
Every once in a while, I will get messages from friends or family who have just read one of my posts. I’m caught a little by surprise when they say that they wish they could hug me, or just letting me know they are thinking about me… I also get the occasional, “are you ok? Today’s topic was really dark.” It surprises me because I don’t feel as though the things I’m saying are dark—because they are past tense and matter-of-fact. I don’t feel dark when I write about rock bottom because its over. Its done. I’m on the other side and I’m proud of that. When I write about how I used to sit in my car in the liquor store parking lot and cry because I desperately wanted there to be another way to exist, I’m happy. I’m happy because that isn’t my life anymore and I’m happy because I am sharing that raw, honest part of my past struggle with people who are currently drowning in that struggle. I want to be living proof that there is, indeed, another way to exist.
While it is important that we never neglect to tell people in a war to “hang in there,” it is also important to realize that recovering addicts are not banished to a life of simply “hanging in there.” Some of us… we’re doing just fine. We aren’t living our lives ten minutes at a time, and we aren’t chain smoking cigarettes just to calm the shakes. We are waking up early, exercising, and putting 100% of ourselves into our day-to-day vocations. We’re keeping up with meetings, we’re taking care of our mental health, we’re taking care of loved ones, and we’re staying sober all day, all night, and waking up again the next day. We’re healthy. We’re content. Its not a chore to live this way, we prefer it.
I received a decent amount of backlash when I made the bold statement that “recovering addicts are not ticking timebombs.” … the backlash came from people who are not addicts. They felt the need to inform me that sobriety moves “one day at a time,” and to focus on “the next good thing.” I was reminded of how dangerous it is to say, “I’ve got this.” Those people are not wrong. However, their thought process is behind mine, not ahead of it. When I said that people in recovery are not ticking timebombs, I meant that our struggle to not use has passed the “one day at a time” calendar. We are not fighting our urge to sedate ourselves on a daily or nightly basis. We don’t think about drinking or using much at all anymore—not because we’re better than that, not because we’ve forgotten, and certainly not because we think we are safe or immune. We are off the endangered list because we are hyperaware that we don’t “got this.” As long as we stay vigilant in maintaining our healthy habits and behaviors, we keep a high fence between ourselves and our addict behaviors. We’ll never be safe from addiction. We are forever a liability to ourselves and others. Being aware of that fact is what keeps us from grabbing our cigarettes and racing out the trailer door.
We didn’t get sober to remain the shivering addict on a wintery street corner. When we are reduced to that stereotype, it cancels our only chance at a happy ending. Heedful addicts are stable people; imperfect, like everyone else, but stable nonetheless. Our good behavior begets positive outcomes and we are addicted to the fair rewards of our responsible choices. Despite my dark subject matter, my blemished history, and the social damage done by being overly willing to share it all publicly… I am alright. I’m great, in fact. Life is good. I’m successfully pursuing my dream career, I’m surrounded by constant love and support, I’m in good shape, I have new hobbies, and I have a dash of pride in myself, all because I don’t take an ounce of it for granted. I’m doing well because I distinctly remember what it was like when I was not well. I do the hard work because the second I stop, is the second I begin making a U-turn back into Hell.
Hollywood makes the big bucks by exploiting addicts who haven’t figured it out quite yet. They aren’t hopeless, they aren’t deviants, they are just lost at the moment. Whether they figure their life out or not does not detract from the fact that a lot of addicts have figured it out. We just aren’t featured because we are not interesting. We fly under the radar on purpose: that’s what well-adjusted humans do. It’s difficult to turn off the instinctive worry you have for an addict, with good reason. They’ve given you a lot of grief. They will need your support from now until forever, but it’s alright to breathe from time to time. If you see an addict doing all the right things, putting in the effort, and still remaining aware of how delicate it all is… then they are ok. They will be ok. Like me, they have been to Hell, they have been to the dark trailer, and they made it out because they didn’t want to live that way anymore. At first, everyone told us that it was “ok to not be ok.” Now, we just want everyone to know that its’s ok because we are ok.
