Hello, I’m An Alcoholic

There is a lot of anecdotal proof that I never behaved as a “normal” child.  Someday, hopefully, I will have memoirs for reference on that fact.  For now, I’ll share one detail that I think proves it pretty well- I never enjoyed playing Hide-and-Seek.  I was not afraid to be alone nor did I have trouble locating other people of similar adolescent stature.  I didn’t enjoy it because, conceptually, it made no sense to me.  First of all, choosing a game that requires near constant separation defeats the purpose of a playdate, does it not?  Secondly, if I want to finagle and contort my body to fit behind a half-deflated pool float in a shed that smells like fertilizer, I could have done it at home.  If I wanted to wait there, kneecaps in my nose, sweating and pondering the 7 years of poor life choices that led me to that particular moment of discomfort, I could have- again- done it at home.  It was a recreational disappointment second only to this:

            “Let’s play ‘house!’”

            “Yes!”

            “I’ll be the dog!”

            “Damn!”

            So, I was playing a single woman with a dog.  Great.  Hindsight being 20/20 I’d love to go back in time and reply, “the dog doesn’t have many lines, can you also play the parole officer?”

            In addition to not enjoying a basic childhood pastime, I was also constantly nervous.  Not nervous like a normal little girl, shrouded in tulle, mere seconds from being shoved onstage to haphazardly flick her chubby legs around before an audience of parents, grandparents, and jaded  older siblings.  I was nervous like the weight of the world was affixed to my shoulders somewhere below the springy, dainty curls and above the straps to the Osh Kosh overalls.  I was terrified of thunderstorms.  I spent Summer days constantly craning my neck to check for bruise-colored clouds on the horizon and being suspicious of every spontaneous breeze.  I had no traumatic experience with bad weather.  Considering how often I insisted on wearing my ruby-red slippers (with or without the rest of the Dorothy costume), you’d think I’d be out looking for a tornado to blow me away to the land of color. 

            I also had an irrational fear of roller coasters.  Looking back, this particular phobia screamed “chronic anxiety disorder” at the top of its lungs.  I wasn’t just experiencing a dislike of rapidly careening carts to, from, and over great heights- I had a full blown debilitating paranoia that I would accidentally end up on a roller coaster and that it could only result in my untimely death.  Even though my mother had developed a specific method to facilitate me never having to go near a roller coaster, it did not stave my fear.  In my mind, some crazy circumstance at the amusement park would occur and I would be forced onto a roller coaster.  During one of our usual routines where we stand in line together and I pass through the ride to wait by the exit, some teenaged idiot attendant would corral me into a seat, lock me down into the harness and I’d be forced to endure the whole harrowing experience.  I could be on the ground near the coaster and someone’s arm would defy centripetal force, snatch me up, and I would dangle outside the cart through the hills and loops until they let go and I fall to my death.  It seems silly now, but those fears raced through my head faster than the aforementioned roller coasters themselves.  No rationality, no hanging by the spinning teacups in the kiddie play area, nor oversized gift shop lollipop that I would lick twice and never finish could curb my constant theme park fretfulness. 

Like thunderstorms, I had no bad experiences with thrill rides to be a basis for my distaste.  I have been blessed with the profound ability to conjure a worst-case-scenario like a Massachusetts coven whose new neighbors wore buckle shoes.  I did not know at the time that my brain was then, and would always be, working against me in my endeavor for rational thoughts and behavior.  In my old age, my anxiety has merely evolved.  In high school it had me paranoid about validation, thinking it was better to stay home or in the corner than to go out, be myself, and risk embarrassment.  At 18, I fled the continent.  In college (the first time), with undiagnosed ADHD, my gut told me that it was better to skip class than go and be reminded that I didn’t understand things like everyone else did.  At 21, I found my miracle.  Alcohol.  Alcohol told my panicked, exhausted, shitty brain, “hey, everything is going to be ok.”  When I was canoodling with alcohol, everything was ok.  I was calm.  I liked myself.  Scratch that- I LOVED myself.  There was no anxiety, there was no fear of embarrassment, there was no impending doom that I could see from where was standing (at the bar.) If I could just get through the day to 5pm, everything would be smoooooooth sailing.  And it was smooth sailing… right up until it wasn’t anymore.

Allow me to introduce myself: I am Kara.  I am an alcoholic.  (This is usually the part where the other people in the church basement say “hello” back.) 

As previously stated, I do not like hiding and I don’t like rides with a lot of ups and downs. So, its about time that I lay everything out on the line and give it a good, hard shove out into the light where all who are willing can take a look.  A lot of people probably think that I should be embarrassed to openly admit it, but I am not.  I’m embarrassed of things I’ve done and said while under the influence.  I am embarrassed that I let it go on for as long as I did.  I’m embarrassed that, even while “technically” sober, I defended my drunk actions.  But no, I’m not embarrassed to be honest about alcoholism and addiction.  I don’t think that enough people are honest about it and I endeavor to play some small part in creating a climate where more people who suffer from addiction can be honest about it.  Hiding in a closet with a bottle of vodka may have quieted the noise of my anxiety-manifested irrational worries, but it created a world of destruction, hurt, and hate that was not at all make-believe.

At 29, I am no “spring chicken” (a phrase that I have never understood) but I am definitely a smaller demographic in those church basements that I referenced earlier.  There are a lot of reasons why youngsters are few and far between, but one saddening fact is that a lot of people in their twenties and thirties think it impossible to start being sober at their age.  They don’t want to be excluded, they don’t want the (here we go again) embarrassment, or, honestly, they don’t feel that they are finished having fun.  I’m not saying that those ideas aren’t valid.  They are.  I am saying that delusions keep you warm at night until they don’t anymore.  I’m also saying very plainly that I am 29, I’m sober, and I’m finally to a place where it isn’t a constant struggle.  I say this hoping that someone who needs to hear this is hearing this.  Don’t do what I did and ride the roller coaster until the wheels fall off.  There is a way out and I want to help whoever I can to find that way that works for them.