Show Me Show Me Show Me How Ya Do It

It was bound to happen at some point.  I was standing at the bar at a restaurant the other day, paying for a to-go order of two salads and a side of green beans.  The bartender handed me back my card and the receipt and told me that it would “only be a minute, they’re packing up your order right now.”  I didn’t mind the wait, it had just started to pour outside and I was on my phone, looking at a series of memes about the cargo ship that was stuck in the Suez Canal (my favorite was the picture of Jamie Lee Curtis holding an Activia and saying, “don’t worry! I’m on my way!”)

                The bar was docile.  There were two men sitting alone and separately, having lunch and a beer while half-watching the athletic what-have-you on ESPN.  Next to where I was standing at the service bar was a couple, gorging clumsily on mozzarella sticks and really boozing it up for Sunday-Funday (as they constantly claim-defended, loudly to the bartender). 

                “Wanna do a shot of Fireball?!”  The male of the two prodded the bartender.

                “Nah, man.  I’m working, but thanks.”

                “Do y’all wanna do a shot of Fireball?”  He offered broadly across the horseshoe bar to the two other imbibing patrons.  Neither responded.

                “What the fuck.” He muttered under his beer odor breath.  “Hey, do a shot of Fireball. … Hey! Girl! Do a shot of Fireball…”

                I lifted my head and tactlessly searched the room like Punxsutawney Phil coming out of hibernation, to find the man staring me down with glazed, eager eyes.

                “No, but thank you for offering!” I politely, and easily declined.

                “Will you do a shot of something else? Tequila?!”

                I laughed courteously, but sincerely, and said “No, really, I’m all set.”

                Usually, my decline would be because of sobriety, but I’ll be honest, even “drinking me” wouldn’t have seen the appeal of starting with Fireball or straight tequila on a Sunday at noon.

                It was becoming unignorably obvious that the man was not only drunk, but belligerent.  I overheard the bartender whisper to the barback that “he must’ve been drinking before he even came in, I’ve only given him two beers and a shot.”

                The man surrendered to the fact that no one, except for his female companion, was interested in joining him for a shooter of any sort, so he told the bartender to just pour two shots of Fireball.  The bartender dodged, the way bartenders do, and said “hey man, let me get y’all a water and we’ll see how you feel in a little while.”

                Having been both a bartender and a bar-goer, I was expecting the man to begin a protest. Instead, he quietly told his date that he was going to go to the restroom and then they would move on to the next watering hole.  It was only after he vacated his seat that I noticed a helmet on the stool next to his, and one on the stool next to the girl.  I also remembered skipping around a motorcycle parked on the sidewalk of the establishment… my spidey senses began tingling. 

                The bartender set two pint glasses of water in front of their seats and the girl ask for their check.  I used the Jedi force to beckon eye contact from the bartender and discretely, but intensely shook my head “no” at him. 

                “Um.  Hey.  Is he your ride?”  The bartender asked the girl.

                Unaware of the implication, she replied, “huh? Oh.  Yeah.”

                Thinking quickly (my new sober superpower) I grumbled, “Ew.  Yeah.  Its pouring outside.  Y’all should call an Uber and just come get the bike later.”

                “Oh gosh… that’s smart.”  She picked up her phone and began ordering a ride.

                The man came back from the bathroom and she said, “hey babe, I’m calling an Uber.”

                Then all Hell broke loose.

                I left.  Not my circus, not my monkeys. 

As I said, I knew it would happen at some point.  The pandemic has prolonged the incident, but inevitably I was going to find myself standing at, or near, a bar, and some tipsy bastard was going to try to persuade me back into the depths of Hell with a free shot of liquid-sugar-venom.  I didn’t necessarily think it would be at noon on the Sabbath in a strip mall pub… but it happened all the same.  Ya know what?  It felt pretty good.  It felt good to finally face a moment that had caused anticipatory anxiety, and to get it over with.  It felt good to say, “no,” without a moment of temptation or hesitation.  It felt good to be the one able to annunciate my words and be allowed to leave with my car keys.  It felt good to see the drunk asshole from a 3rd person point of view… and it be real, not me having out-of-body experience.  As I walked out of the bar to go home to my sister and my nephew (aka my circus, my monkeys) I felt a bit smug. 

Its one thing to be secure.  Its another thing to be cocky.  Being cocky about being sober is like walking into Hospice with a clean scan and singing “na-na-nanana-na!”  It’s a fucked-up thing to do.  Especially because, we know this all too well, the only people who know the kind of help an addict needs to get sober, are the people who have lived through addiction themselves.  It’s exclusive- like becoming a member of the Nantucket Golf Club: someone has to die, then someone else with purely Anglo Saxon lineage and a string of pearls once owned by Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis has to stand in front of a panel of dusty, half-dead, white men who can no longer urinate satisfactorily (but can somehow still shoot below par at Miacomet?) and say, in reference to you, the wasp translation of “they cool. They cool.”

The exclusivity of only addicts being able to help addicts is not just because of the fact that only an addict can understand the situation… its because non-addicts, sometimes, make a purposeful and vengeful point to not understand addiction. … I provoke people when I say things like that.  And I keep doing it.  This is the contentious point where I fear that my security becomes smuggery. 

I was talking with a lovely family friend the other day- someone who has been steadfast in their support for my endeavors, but also consistent in their ability to give respectful, constructive criticism.  I trust them implicitly.  So much so that I finally asked them a question that has been plaguing me, knowing fully well that their answer would be honest, if also undesirable. 

“Do I come off as incredibly arrogant?”

Sparing my nerves, he responded rapidly, saying, “Arrogant? No.  You do appear to be frustrated.”

I did what women do and stewed on his choice of words for a while.  Then, I decided that “frustrated” is precisely the way I want people to see me.  Because I am frustrated.  My adjective-phobia aside, I have to be delicate with how my words adhere themselves to people’s perceptions.  I did not start writing to be “whipped cream.”  I don’t write about shoes and purses.  I don’t post recipes with backlit photographs of perfect-looking Sheppard’s Pie that got cold and congealed while my salivating family waited impatiently for me to get the right angle with my camera.  I don’t put up videos of myself trying Kat Von D’s new foundation.  I sure as shit don’t make TikToks of a glass of wine being poured with children screaming in the background, then flipping the camera to my face and saying, “it’s Mommy Wine Time, amirite ladies?”

No.  I write about an incredibly sensitive, overlooked, under-discussed, life-or-death issue that is anything but superficial.  Not only that, I’ve put my money where my mouth is.  This isn’t a platform about “addiction as a concept,” this is about addiction as it lives, breathes, and hunts it’s prey.  I don’t just say, “I know a guy…” I am “the guy.”  I’ve exposed myself more with these words than I ever did panty-less in a cocktail dress, climbing out of sedan Ubers and climbing onto people and barstools.  If you’re wondering where my underwear went, the answer is I DON’T FUCKING KNOW.  I had ‘em when the night started, damnit.  And yes, I joke.  Yes, I agitate.  Also, yes, I beg for validation.  As you can see, I am actively baiting the word “arrogant” to come and tattoo itself across my forehead. 

To me, arrogance about sobriety sounds like, “Its not my fault.  I was sick.  I am strong.  I’m basically superwoman.  Haters back off.  Hurt people hurt.  Deal with it.  You don’t get to be mad.  I didn’t know what I was doing.  Feel sorry for me.  I was just dealing with my traumas.  I’m a total survivor.”  The tricky part is that some of those statements are true.  Remember earlier when I said that it felt good to see a drunk person from a 3rd person perspective?  Omniscience is a pipe-dream, but empathy and humility are a prerequisite for recovery.  That is how I have the audacity to take the tone of “hey, addiction is a son-of-a-bitch.  I’m bad.  But I’m not all bad.  I hurt myself.  Worse- I hurt everyone else.  In weakness, I ignited an inferno.  In strength, I snuffed it out.  In a necessary selfishness, I treat my own injuries.  With a loving meekness, I will spend my life attempting to palliate the scorches that the wildfire of my addiction left on the people I care for.  The ones who, even through my worst moments, masochistically cared for me…”

While we can all agree that arrogant=bad, “frustrated” doesn’t sound much better.  “Frustrated” is the more constructive sister to “mad as Hell.”  People think they are twins, but they just have a close resemblance and sometimes share clothes.  Frustration has degrees.  One of those degrees is, in fact, “mad as Hell.”  Nobody takes up residence at the “mad as Hell” end of frustrated quite as often as a toddler.  Psychologists and biologists alike believe that we can learn a lot about human behavior from studying the behavior or octopi.  This particular Kara believes that we can learn a lot about drunk people behavior by studying the behavior of  toddlers.  Hear me out- they’re uncoordinated, inarticulate, insatiable, aggressive, unpredictable, prone to both mania and depression, and they cry.  Like, a lot. 

Any time that I get to spend with my nephew is a blessing.  This week, I got five whole days of sweet snuggles, giggly bath times, sleepy bedtimes, cheery ‘good mornings,’ precious learning moments, charming new word babbles, silly rain puddle splashes, demonic outbursts, vengeful tit-punches, psychotic fit-pitching, eardrum shattering yelps of displeasure, and at least three terrifying and impressive cracks at world domination.  His anger does not manifest because he is a “bad baby.”  He’s not a bad baby, he’s also not an angry baby.  He’s actually a very intelligent and intuitive baby who suffers from a limited, age-appropriate vocabulary.  He has needs and wants like every other person, but he cannot articulate them as well as an adult like me, who has had an additional 28 years to get hooked on phonics.  So, sometimes, when his wants and needs are unmet, he screams.  Loudly. 

Yesterday, after I picked my nephew up from daycare, I decided to take the long way home so he and I could round out our week with extended car dancing and stoplight snacky-snack exchanges.  But there was no joy in Mudville, mighty Aunt Square had struck out.  Ten minutes into the drive he lost his Holy precious adolescent shit.  What do you do when you have an inconsolable 20-month-old goblin trying to shed its human form in your backseat?  You take it to its Emme (the Grandma formerly known as my Mommy).  So, I pulled into Mom’s driveway and chucked an imploding baby at her. 

I have no idea if she’s just patient, or overly intuitive, or if God sees a new Grandma and with a flick of his wand (or whatever God does) says, “you’ve suffered enough, have some toddler tact and insight.”  Regardless, she can lead him back to sanity.  Her method is quite simple- when he is screaming, crying, and angry that he cannot speak his needs, she picks him up, rubs his little back, ands says, “show me.” 

With forceful, leading lurches and the point of a wee index finger, he directs Emme to ferry him to his desires.  Goldfish snacks, bubble wands, Power Wheels, the out-of-season singing Santa that envelopes his attention during diaper changes… all can be had if he just “shows” his Emme what he wants.  What a concept that has been.

Factually, I am frustrated.  I am mad as Hell.  Sometimes, I am arrogant.  The question is, do I have the right to be any of those things?  I’m an addict.  An alcoholic, specifically.  I knew on the day that I stopped drinking that I had a long road ahead that included curses, experiences, and feelings that I would not enjoy.  Perhaps, that’s why I put off the quitting for so long…  I knew that I would have to be uncomfortable for a while.  I knew that I would have to be humble.  I knew that I would have to be embarrassed, lonely, scared, depressed, unworthy, unsure, untrustworthy, unreliable, and lost.  I took the loan, I had to pay the interest. 

My life changed so fast.  I almost got whiplash.  I’ll tell you what, though… I earned that shit.  Every good thing in my life right now was bought and paid for- no more happiness on loan from a bottle.  The only liquid I fucks with is sweat and tears.  Mostly tears, and like, a teeny bit of sweat…  It isn’t just about gaining things in general, or gaining back the things that I had lost, its about maintaining those things.  Its about accepting harsh truths as they come, instead of avoiding and postponing them.  Its about holding your head up high while you sob about the things that try to take you down.  So, if the gratification is earned and instant, what is there to be frustrated about…?  Not being understood. 

I live in a sea of apologies.  I’m not complaining- I owe them- and every single one is unadulterated and sincere.  But if I could boil down my addiction into one lasting sentiment that I believe to be imperative for people to understand, its this:  I never meant to hurt anyone (but myself).

I struggled with something.  That phrase is an understatement because it sounds more like I was involved in a non-consensual tickle fight, but it’s the phrase I find myself using most often to answer the query, “Jesus Christ, Kara! What the fuck happened?!”  I never acted in malice, I never acted knowingly on neglect.  That fact really upsets the people who, because of my addiction, felt attacked and neglected.  They expect a lifetime of apologies, and I’ll happily give them.  But I find apologies to be incredibly unproductive.  I am sorry.  Saying “sorry” does nothing, living “sorry,” is my directive.  Sometimes my proactive attitude reads as arrogant.

When I walk out of a bar sober, I get to be a little arrogant- not because I’m better than the drunkard still falling off his stool, but because I’m better than I used to be.  It’s aggravating when people don’t realize the massive difference between the two.  When I become frustrated with the fact that some people will only every see me as my addiction and refuse to acknowledge that I am so much more than my struggle, I think about Emme and Steele…  “Don’t scream.  Don’t cry.  Show me.”