Merry Christmas to All, and to All, A Good Fight

I distinctly remember how uncomfortable sober people used to make me feel before I was sober.   They testified to how their life had improved since they quit drinking, they promised that sobriety was doable, and they swore that they were in a place, mentally, where drinking didn't even cross their mind anymore.  My reflexive reaction was "no." Just… no.

They couldn't be telling the truth.  It was impossible.  Anyone who had ever needed alcohol the way I did couldn't possibly do life without it.  They weren't happy.  They weren't even "ok."  They weren't immune to the thought of drinking—they thought about it all the time.  Had to.  The way that I thought about drinking every single second of every single day.  Which meant that only two things could be true; these sober people were lying to me, which gave me an excuse to keep drinking.  Or these sober people were not like me—a different breed of drinkers who were curable, whereas I was not curable or capable of sobriety which meant I shouldn't even bother trying, which also gave me an excuse to keep drinking. 

Never underestimate the skillset for self-manipulation as provided by a crippling addiction; it is persistent and hardcore.  We are so inundated in our own diluted brand of survival that we close our eyes and ears to the stories of real survival and success because believing them would require us to venture the idea of a life without booze.  And we don't even want to think about what it would be like to let go of the railing.

So, if the whole idea of sobriety is that contradictory and combative to the not-yet sober, how does anyone quit drinking?  How did I quit drinking?  The answer is:  it’s complicated.  The stars aligned, numerable factors came into play, a switch finally flipped in my brain, and the craving I had for booze-induced numbness turned into a savage urge to get the Hell away from my sad, repulsive life within an addiction.  I got lucky and I won.   While my story is true, it isn't exactly helpful.  There is no secret cure, magical answer, or unfailing path to recovery.  It breaks my convalescing heart into pieces all over again every time that I have to tell an alcoholic, or a desperate someone who loves an alcoholic, that I don't have the cure.  I cannot fix them.  I can support and assist, but I cannot convert or baptize. 

Every person and every case are different because "addiction" is not the entire problem, therefore, stopping the substance abuse is not the full solution.  The addict's psyche and soul need specific tending so that there is no longer a need for a booze blankie or cocaine teddy bear to provide fictional comfort during our battles with nonfictional monsters.  There is a route to sustainable sobriety, sure, but it's not a road, it's an obstacle course.  And I'm not doing an ineffective job of describing the experience... it's just that confusing.  The myth is that addicts don't exit addiction because they don't want to.  That's not always true. 

I've written entire pieces on how much I abhor the cliche, "you have to do it for yourself."  Its dismissive, its parochial, and I hate it.  "You have to do it for yourself."  As if addicts are driven by the egotistical desire to only do the right thing when it benefits us.  What? No.  Addicts aren't going to do jack-shit for ourselves-- we HATE us.  Can you fathom the amount of distain and betrayal that has to build up in a woman for her to start tactically feeding arsenic to her unfaithful, abusive husband via whiskey and meatloaf?  Ok, so, imagine the level of self-loathing that exists in someone who is egregiously gobbling heroin. 

The choices aren’t as easy and obvious as they seem to the spectators.  There’s never a phase of addiction where its black and white, “I could do drugs or not do drugs today,” and we choose to do drugs.  Same goes with drinking.  Drinking was a socially acceptable pastime right up until it became requisite for my heartbeat.  The real choice comes at the precipice of death and recovery.  I remember the day, the moment, the very second that I had a choice.  I had every reason in the world to quit drinking.  I had every reason in the world to keep going until it killed me dead.  And I made a choice.  Now I’m that sober person that makes unsober people uncomfortable by saying, “Yes, you can quit.  Yes, it’s fantastic.”

Every now and then I take a break from feeling sorry for myself to feel sorry for people who have never struggled with addiction.  Yeah, you read that right.  And I’ll fight about it, because there is simply no way that someone who hasn’t hit the self-induced Hellish low that I have could have the same appreciation that I do for life.  My life—life in general—all life.  I’ve seen Hell.  I planted my flag in the circle of treachery where Satan himself resides.  From his throne of stalactites, he asked, “are you done yet?” 

Through arduous exhales and cracked, bleeding lips I replied, “No, I think I’ll have another drink.”

There was a point where I did not want to live.  Not a passing incident, I’m talking months spent in a mindset where dying was fine, if not preferable for me.  I was content to let the booze carry me away to whatever post-addiction purgatory there is between realms.  A few times I felt the need to go away purposefully.  Swiftly.  Get out of everyone’s way.  End my own misery and leave my loved ones with the dwindling good memories that remained instead of sticking around to instigate more bad memories.  There was a time when I felt rushed to leave because my nephew was starting to repeat words and I wanted to be gone before he could recognize my face and recite my name.  He wouldn’t have to wonder where I’d gone if he never knew that I was there, ya know?

This is dark story, but it has a happy ending.  Yes, I remember being uncomfortable when sober people would say that they were happy and never thought about drinking.  I remember thinking that no one like me could have a life without alcohol.  Even if they could quit drinking, they could never be happy—not if they had the extended list of mistakes and humiliations that I had racked-up; being sober meant dealing with those with no armor.  No fence.  No aid in addressing them.  In summation, sobriety meant misery.  Alcoholism meant misery.  But alcoholism meant I could have alcohol while I soaked in the lukewarm bath of misery.  The climb out of addiction seemed impossible and there was no guarantee that anything worth fighting for would be waiting for me at the apex.  Which of course was not true, addiction just destroys every crumb of logic and self-worth in the mind of its recruits.  I had so much to live for and to fight for and I just had to take one good swing at sobriety to prove to myself that it was possible, and I’ve only gained reasons to live and to fight ever since.

So, I’m not hyperbolizing when I say that I find this life that I’m living to be beautiful.  Commuter traffic and pharmacy lines are Heaven on Earth to me, so imagine how much love I feel when I see the smile and hear the giggle of a little boy who I once thought would be better off not ever knowing that there was an “Aunt Kay-ah.”  Its more than beautiful—its absolute magic.  It’s the kind of high I never thought I could achieve with or without a potion in my veins.  I’m high enough that I often come down off a good, deep bout of laughter and have to remind myself that I am completely sober.  And I know how that idea will hit someone who still struggles.  It’s like seeing a ghost or falling in love—its unfathomable until it happens to you.  No one believed in the possibility less, or was deeper into the throws of addiction than me… yet, here I am.  Healthy.  Happy.  Thriving.

Why am I telling you all this?  Because it’s imperative for addicts and the people that love them to see the possibilities.  Especially this time of year when emotions and anxiety are at their peak.  The holidays are great for supplementing familial love, but they are also expert at salting the wounds of the people and the relationships that we’ve lost.  Having addiction in your life is a peculiar and festering hurt, because it makes our blessings seem unmerited and excessive, yet insufficient.  For our family, it feels like a trick before an inevitable disappointment.  Their addict may be there, in a sweater, set in front of the hearth, but they aren’t really there.  It’s just a familiar looking human with a junkie’s prerogative and a dormant soul.

It’s a devastating situation.

But I cannot advise anyone to give up.

Not at Christmas.

Not when I’m feeling the way that I do.  Settled.  Happy.  Firmly on the other side of a devastating situation.  Hell behind me.  Possibilities ahead of me.  Wonderful, steadfast, loving people surrounding me.

And it’s the holidays.  I haven’t posted in a while, not because I gave up, or lost sight of my message, or went on a bender (Jesus Christ).  I was busy.  I had exams, I was giving exams, I was with addicts in person, I was with the children of addicts, and I was hugging, touching, loving my people, and I was grabbing life by the horns and leading it where I wanted to go—because I’m sober now and I can do such things.  Sober like I never thought I could be.  Sober like anyone can be.  Sober like someone who used to flinch at the word “sober,” and now wakes up every day thinking, “Wow.  Life is good.”