You Can Bullshit a BullShitter
As much as I love making long-winded Freudal analogies and turning them into lengthy, humdrum personal essays in the name of addiction awareness… I’ve come to realize two things: One, I’m boring everyone, including myself. Two, interminable prose isn’t helping anyone—especially not anyone who is struggling with alcoholism. I have the luxury of turning my recovery into loquacious, sporadic blog posts, but most alcoholics don’t. Most alcoholics are only getting through the day because they have teeth to grind, knuckles to overexert, sweat glands to evacuate, rocks to kick, and walls to pummel. I’ve done my best dole out grace to alcoholics and non-alcoholics evenly in an attempt to erect some kind of structurally-sound understanding between the two unfortunate groups. I have never felt more qualified to advocate for both than I do today. Because I have never struggled with being in both groups more than I am struggling today.
I met a lot of people in rehab. A few great people, a number of unexceptional people, and a couple of people that I never care to see again until I’m informed that my room is ready in Hell. Of those great people, only one became a close friend and confidante. We did not have much in common on paper—Richard* was a man with 26 more years of existence on this ill-fated planet than I, but he was also the only person in that crowd of misfits that could help me complete the Times crossword puzzle.
Richard was a pharmacist. He loved his family, he loved his job, he loved traveling to destinations that most people would advise against—most recently Cambodia and Telaviv, and Egypt was next on his list. His marriage was in jeopardy due to his addiction, much like mine, but he was desperate to save it, just as I was desperate to save my own. His son had been married for a couple of years and he was gleefully anticipating grandchildren. His daughter wrote him letters every single day and even sent clues in each envelope that we would eventually piece together in a ransom note like-collage that read “Jeffrey Epstein did not kill himself.”
After we left treatment, Richard and I talked every day. We attended the same meetings even though he lived in Asheville and I lived in Raleigh, because Covid forced most AA gatherings to an online platform. As we both became more secure in our sober lives and required less commiserating, communication dwindled. In a good way. We were surviving. We were happy. We were immersed in the beauty of the lives we had been taking for granted as alcoholics. We checked in every few months with one another and it was a genuine delight for me to hear his pieces of good news that seemingly came to him on a conveyor belt. His marriage was better than ever, he had his first grandchild--a boy-- named Richard after his adoring Grandpa. The last time he and I spoke, I told him that I had met a wonderful man and that we were expecting our first child in January. Richard was elated. He told me that his daughter was also expecting a child in January and that he and his wife were embarking on a two-week vacation the next week—he was finally going to see Egypt.
In February I sent Richard a picture of my son along with a message that said, “He’s one month old. Things that never could have happened if I hadn’t quit drinking. I was feeling particularly proud yesterday and wanted to remind you how lucky you and I are. And to remind you that I’m incredibly happy for you (and proud of you too, even if it is a cliché.)”
Richard did not answer me.
Richard’s wife responded from his phone.
She informed me that Richard had indeed not been sober for all of these years and had been drinking since a month after he left rehab back in 2020.
Richard, my closest sober confidante had been drunk and lying to me about it for 4 years.
And Richard was dead.
The last time we spoke, Richard told me that he and his wife were moving to High Point to be closer to their grandchildren. She was already there, getting settled into their new place and he stayed behind alone in Asheville to prepare their house for market.
The truth was that his wife had moved to High Point to be closer to their grandchildren and Richard had not been invited to join her. She couldn’t take it anymore. She’d had enough of the lies, and the misbehavior, and the sneaking around, and all of the other woes that come with sharing a life with an addict. All of which added up to the daily gnawing realization that the person you are sharing your life with is choosing booze over you, your children, and your grandchildren. Every day.
Alone in the immaculate mountain home, with the patio he had just repaved with cobblestone, the panoramic view of monochromatic mountain crests, and the memories of cozying up with his family in front of a stone fireplace on the other side of frosty picture windows, Richard put a gun to his lips and swallowed the last drop of his predilection.
His wife is not to blame for abandoning him at his most vulnerable. She gave him so much more time and leniency than he deserved, then gave him even more time and leniency on top of that. Richard is to blame for his fate… but to what extent? Accountability is crucial for an addict to fully recover, but I will say this: addiction is a thorny trap that provides very few choices. It encapsulates you in fibrous vines that embrace you and strangle you in equal measure.
I’m furious about Richard’s lies, especially when I was his confidant. If he had told me he was struggling, I would not have run away. I would have done everything in my power to support him. I don’t consider an addict a casualty until they are cold in the ground. I cannot say I could have fixed him, but I could have told him with firm sincerity that I understood him. I do.
In two days, I will be four years sober. I am damn proud of it. The life I have right now is not just beautiful, it’s a gift from the sober Gods. I’m not saying I deserve it, but I am saying that I put in the work to reap the sweet nectar of a sober life. That being said, everyday I look at my beautiful, perfect baby son and I wonder if my resolve will last. I wonder if this life I have worked so hard for will push me to that dark place of unworthiness and the anxiety of it all will turn up the volume of that siren song of sweet release that reverberates from under the wax seal of a bottle of Maker’s Mark. I could bring up Freud’s theory of a Death Wish, but I don’t think its that complicated. I live in fear of being powerless against the “off-switch.” The one that lives in the liquor cabinet.
That’s the truth. I live with the pride of overcoming my addiction. I also live in a state of unceasing terror that I’m one split-second of panic away from reaching for that off-switch that lives in the liquor cabinet.
