A Day in the Life of an Anonymous Alcoholic

“My god didn’t make no gay people!” an old man chuffed at me when I let fly that I was dating a woman. It was my first-ever Narcotics Anonymous meeting and I was there for alcohol-related issues. Crack brought him here. So quite literally, my first experience truly opening up about my substance-abuse background to a room of people who were supposed to be understanding of potential root causes resulted in gay-shaming from an old crack-fiend. Sweet.

I wanted to walk out immediately, but I’d settled my stuff and truly just wanted this to work. I was 25, very much a contributing member of society, but also battling a raging problem with the sauce that I desperately wanted under control. A recovering buddy of mine suggested I try this particular meeting, its location in the basement of a church near my house.

“I really get a lot out of it,” he said. “Good people.”

But there I was, stewing. It made perfect sense. I was, after all, in the Deep South, seeking counsel and camaraderie from people clutching a copy of One Day At A Time in one hand (a stop-your-vice manifesto), and a copy of The Holy Bible in the other. At any time, they’d wield words from either book. The second step out of the 12 you’re urged to take on your recovery process is believing that a “Power greater than yourself can restore [you] to sanity.” Needless to say, there was a lot of Bible-thumping. The round of “mmm-hmmm!” the old man got when he informed me that I wasn’t a product of “God” made me want to crack open a fresh bottle of bourbon and give it hell.

That was nearly a decade ago.

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It’s 6pm. Long day. Traffic. Wear and tear. Check the mail. More bills. No groceries. Take the dog out. Get a text. Passive-aggressive message. Great. Hit the treadmill. Still tense. No groceries. There’s bourbon. Turn on the TV. “I hate this show.” Fine. Bourbon. “This show’s kinda funny, actually.” Another swig. Piece together a meal. Not the best. More bourbon. “I need music.” Sit in the dark. Listen to music. More drinking. “What was that song …?” Swig. “Ah, yes.” Eyes close. Wake in the chair. 3am. Again? Can’t sleep. Feel ill. Shower? Let’s. 5am. Try to sleep? Two hours. No sleep. Dress for work. Dizzy. “Hey, everybody.”

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

That’s me. That’s the dissolution that’s become my daily routine for the last ten or so years of my life, give or take a treadmill session (mostly take). I wake every single day with two things on my mind: “You’re tired of this. Do better.” And, conversely: “You know 6pm will come again, who are you kidding?”

And I know the latter sentiment is the stronger one. I know this outright because I’ve tried and failed to get this monkey off my back on more times than I wish to talk about. Part of me feels it is me, so I stop fighting too hard. It’s always there. It’ll always be there.

What’s sad is watching people around me (the ones who know, anyhow) blame themselves. What’s sad is hearing their pleas echo in my head while I sit outside the liquor store begging, “Please don’t do this. You said you wouldn’t do this” to myself. What’s sad is that a dire medical bodycheck doesn’t stop me from cracking another bottle. What’s sad is that the best in me will always get pushed out by the worst in me. It’ll always lose.

If the help never takes hold, that is. If only hope were as addictive as the haze.

I wish I could lift the tone for a finale that most people are used to. “It gets better” or whatever. The truth is, I have no advice — only this vice, which might provide a sick comfort to some that their feelings are not original, and a cautionary tale to others that losing your grip for good is easily done. Maybe one day, but until then, this is me … and there’s a lot of “me” out there. Perhaps I’ve seen you at a Mile High meeting? We’ll never know. But good luck to you, too. You, I, and that “higher power” knows we’ll need it.