No Beer Birthday

What I wanted was a facility that could hook me up with a counselor and someone who writes prescriptions.  Preferably in the same building.  I wanted antidepressants and someone to talk to about drinking too much. 

The website of the first place I tried said it specialized in addiction counseling.  What I learned looking around the dark stale lobby – a spatial embodiment of a hangover – was that their specialty, more precisely, was court-mandated addiction counseling. 

In the consultation closet, the head recovering alcoholic explained that if I wanted his center’s help I’d have to sign a sobriety pledge and come to group therapy sessions 5 nights a week. He’d been sober 20 years, got his counseling certificate online and could teach me how to have it all, too.  What did I think?  Was I ready?

I tried to keep the lump in my throat and horror off my face. 

The next place I went was much more beautiful.  There was a fountain outside and a white noise machine in the waiting area and all the fixings to make hot tea.  The advice I got here, while delivered in a room full of natural light, was even scarier. 

A nurse practitioner told me that if I was really serious about getting help I should check myself in to a rehab facility.  When I was done with that, I’d need to go to AA meetings everyday at least once a day.  She said I could have some Zoloft, too, if I thought I needed it. 

Less out of concern for my well-being and more to spite her and the sock-n-sandaled man before her, that was the day I quit.  It wasn’t all spite.  More a suicide of spite, fear, and obduracy.  I stomped out like a little kid.  I can do it myself!  With some Zoloft, please.      

I’m not saying anyone else should do this or even that it works but I didn’t go to rehab or AA.  I went to see movies.  Sometimes two a day.  I talked to a counselor every couple of weeks.  I am steady on medicine that helps anxiety and depression. 

I am clumsy with the title Alcoholic because I don’t think I deserve it.  Like, because my life wasn’t messed up enough, I don’t get to claim not drinking as a victory.  Because I have stopped, it must not have been that hard.  When I tell my friends this story some say, “You didn’t drink that much.”

It’s the same reason I’m shy to say I am depressed.  Other people have it worse.  My problem is I’m lazy.  I want attention.  I need more resolve. 

Maybe.  Maybe.

But also fuck it.  Whatever the shorthand for it is, I felt out of control.  I don't now.  It’s been a year and I’m really proud. 

Righting The Ship And A Little Grumpy About It (NOT AT ALL CHRISTMASY)

I have not been writing.  Not anything. 

What I used to do was buy a case of beer and a pack of cigarettes, bring my laptop out to the front porch and write until my eyes wouldn’t focus or until I ran out of beer.  It was really fun.  It was pretty much my favorite thing to do. 

Right now I am on the porch smoking and drinking a Becks Non-Alcoholic Beer (all of the calories without any of the drunk).  I’ve been sober for six months in a row and I’m really proud of it.  It’s been nice walking the earth without the yellowed claws of shame and regret ripping at my bowels.

But I miss beer.  I miss writing and drinking too much beer.  Beer was the reward for putting my butt in the chair.  Beer made it more fun to stay in the chair.  And for better or worse – usually worse – it made me want to tell you everything. 

Sitting down to write without drinking is awful.  It’s really boring.  I would rather do anything else.  I would rather clean the bathroom.  I would rather check my credit card balances.  I would rather cut matted hair off of my dog.  I would rather take an internet quiz to find out which Love Actually character I am. 

The September 29th entry in my journal:  Gosh, I wish I had more time to write but I’ve been so busy fixating on my wart. 

Not drinking is great.  I mean it sucks, but big picture, self-esteem/anxiety/depression-wise it has been the right decision day after day.  Not writing feels wrong though.  Easy and empty.  Untangling the two demands a kind of emotional nuance and discipline that I resent.     

A lesson that is emerging maybe is that as hard as it is to stop doing a destructive thing, sometimes it’s harder to start doing a healthy thing. 

Gross.