How Far We'll Go

I never thought my life would amount to much of anything. I knew, even as a young child, that I would be a disappointment. Not just to my parents, who favoured my younger, overachieving brother, but to myself as well.

I was average in school, pulling B’s and C’s where most of my class was receiving A’s. I worked just hard enough in gym class to be unnoticed, but I was never particularly athletic. My mind had a tendency to wander, to only snap back when a teacher called on me, expecting my failure to know the answer.

I had two friends in school – Derek, who moved away just as we were starting high school; and Mark; we remained friendly until he went off to university. I heard he’s married now, has a baby on the way. We were friendly, but never particularly close.

I never had high expectations for myself, knew I was too quiet, too awkward, too shy. I had learned a long time ago that being quiet meant I was left on the sidelines. And I was perfectly fine with that. It meant I was unnoticed, never singled out or put in the spotlight. I liked being in the darkened crowd – anonymous. But I did enjoy having the friendship Derek and Mark provided in my formative years.

So when I graduated high school and was suddenly friendless, I applied for a menial job at the local fast food restaurant on the block, some average, oily-smelling burger chain that spanned across all of North America. I wore a yellow polo and a black visor that smelled like onions, each emblazoned with the company logo.

I was hired as a cashier. I was to take orders and punch them into the computer, having them ticketed out in the back for the kitchen staff to fulfill and deliver in neat little paper bags. A kitchen job seemed more in line with my personality but they had already filled those positions by the time I was interviewed.

At first it was terrifying, having to speak one-on-one with strangers. Eyes that followed me from behind only twelve inches of Formica, pressing me into a tight space with quivering knees and words that stumbled from my tongue. Anxiety had crawled beneath my skin like insects, itchy and demanding attention.

But I learned to get used to it, and even began to look forward to days I worked. The only other cashier, Sam, was kind and she would step in when I froze up. She would pacify unruly customers and placate even the most complicated of orders. She was nice and sweet and her red hair smelled like strawberries.

The kitchen had exactly four other staff members: Gus, Friedrick, Mel, and Tony. They worked the fryer, fried burgers, took drive-through orders, and made milkshakes and drinks. They operated as a fluid machine – it was almost magical to watch.

When customers were rude or demanding or sometimes even physical, Gus would stand behind me, his enormous body intimidating the customer into leaving or sometimes even apologizing. I never spoke to him, but he would clap his meaty hand on my shoulder.

“We’re a team here, bud. We got you.”

I felt like maybe I was finally finding my footing in life. I was looking forward to my job. I was still largely ignored at home, but I had found something I hadn’t realize I’d been searching for my whole life: acceptance.

Here, I was an invaluable part of the team. Not just wanted, but needed.

So when Mel invited me to a party she was throwing, I said yes. I was nestled on a couch between Gus and Mel, Friedrick, Tony, and Sam sitting on chairs opposite. I was handed something sour-smelling in a red solo cup. It burned when I drank it. My head swam, but I think I was still having fun. And when Gus handed me the blunt, I took it, unwilling to shatter this fragile, tenuous friendship I had created.

The weed made my head spin, lightheaded and electric, like pop rocks were going off inside my skull. I think I laughed. And when Friedrick sectioned out something white and powdery on the glass coffee table and handed me a rolled bill, I took that too. I didn’t know what I was taking exactly, but it seemed better than to ask questions. Questions that might seem too naïve, too silly, too dumb. I was uncertain, but I didn’t want to betray my innocence in these matters, and my hold on this life was already too delicate. Too breakable. One moment from shattering and leaving me desolate and alone.

I snorted it, and it lit a flare through my sinuses, in a way I had never experienced before.

“Oh look, there he goes!” Someone had shouted – was it me? I felt free for the first time in my life, uninhibited by my thoughts, by my own insecurities. I remember flashes – dancing with Sam, sweat dripping from my temples; doing another line of white powder in the bathroom; cup after red solo cup shoved into my hands, throwing my head back and slamming the empty vessel down in triumph. I remember them looking at me, their eyes glazed and their smiles lazy. I felt loose and easy and free.

I remember waking up the next morning, shirtless, my jeans on but my shoes missing, a pounding in my head like I’d never experienced. I leaned back on the couch, rubbing my face. My eyes felt itchy and the bright light streaming in from the unfamiliar window indicated midmorning. Someone was draped over my lap – a freckled shoulder bound by a purple bra strap – Mel? I pushed her off me as gently as I could, her dark hair obscuring her face as she groaned. I found my shoes – one kicked near the bathroom door, the other under an ottoman – and hurried home, worried my parents would be upset for not having told them I’d spend the night elsewhere.

They hadn’t even noticed I was missing.

I felt awkward my next shift at work – would they admonish me for not sticking around after a night of partying? Would they be mad, upset, cut all ties to me?

But I was wrong. They were ecstatic to see me, the boys clapping me on the back, telling me how they didn’t realize I was such a partier, how they didn’t know I could move like that – were they talking about the dancing?, and how they couldn’t wait to do it again.

I was lightheaded with relief – they still wanted me. Something I had done last night had been right. They had seen something in me that was worth their time, their friendship. They cared about me.

So when they wanted to go out again the following night, I didn’t hesitate. The night went fairly the same as the first – a series of flashes in which I recalled barely anything of note, this time held at Gus’s basement suite. There were several of his other friends there this time, unfamiliar strangers, men who shotgunned beer from the can and girls who traced their fingers over my chest.

When I woke up in an unfamiliar bed, a strange girl only draped in a sheet snoring softly beside me, I was filled with a different kind of panic. Had I lost my virginity last night? I couldn’t remember. My brain rattled in my head, a throbbing behind my eyes that made my vision pulse. I retreated from the bedroom, trying not to wake the slumbering girl inside.

“Look at you, you dog!” Tony had grabbed my shoulders from behind, rubbing them painfully. I flinched. “You totally scored last night! Damn, bro!”

His voice was loud, and made my headache and my panic worse. I excused myself hurriedly, grabbing my coat and shoes.

“Wait, wait, bro. You okay?” Gus called from the couch, some kind of cartoon playing on the tv.

I’d nodded, a familiar anxiety clawing up my throat, not trusting myself to speak.

He turned back to the tv, satisfied. “Drink another beer when you get home, helps with the hangover,” he called without looking back.

I heeded his advice – it did help some, but then the hangover came back stronger. But. If I kept drinking beer, the hangover wouldn’t continue. And that’s what started my descent into this madness.

I started showing up to work buzzed, and I could keep that under wraps for a while, keeping a flask in my inner coat pocket and sneaking sips on my bathroom breaks. I eventually moved in with Gus – we shared a two-bedroom apartment on the west side of town, and when we weren’t working, we were drinking. We had everyone over all the time, our apartment never short on empty beer cans and encasing despair.

It’s funny, but somehow those parties started to seem more lonely than I had ever been at home, friendless and forgotten. The crowd of people moving like a blur, the music, the red solo cups filled with alcohol, the crude laughter, the waking up tasting sour beer on my tongue and regret behind my eyes.

Years passed. I had more friends than I ever had before. But I was also never more alone.

The need for acceptance twists you and forces you into unimaginable positions. You tell yourself lies, trick yourself into believing you have everything under control. That the friendship and relationships you’ve built by becoming this whole other person is just temporary, that when you decide to show them who you really are – awkward, insecure, quiet – that they’ll accept that too. But then that thought is paralyzing, the idea that they could reject you, cast you out. And then what will you be left with?

Acceptance is the first step of an Alcoholic’s Anonymous recovery program, but it’s also what led me down this path to begin with. Fear of being left behind, of being rejected, of being alone. I felt like I needed their friendship like I needed air – I was suffocating, drowning in loneliness, depressed and fearful. Gus, Mel, Tony, Friedrick. Sam. I dated her for a while, but we never did anything but smoke pot in bed and drink with the group. Maybe if we’d gone out for a movie, gotten dinner, actually talked to each other, it would have worked out.

But then again, maybe not.

Sometimes I miss them, the old ways, the routine we followed like it was the only way we knew how to go forward. Maybe it was. Maybe we were all confused and needed some kind of outlet, something to bond us together, and drugs and alcohol the only way we knew how.

I turned 25 and was still living with Gus, still partying every other day, still drinking at work and making no future plans for myself. My boss at the fast food joint smelled the alcohol on me – honestly I’m surprised he hadn’t before – and sent me home. The second time it happened, he fired me. I wasn’t really surprised. My eyes were perpetually red and rimmed, my breath sour, my uniform once crisp and ironed, now wrinkled and musty-smelling.

Losing that job didn’t matter anymore – I lived with Gus, I couldn’t be cast out now. I was in too deep.

So I stayed home, drinking all day until Gus got home from his shift, and we’d drink and smoke and snort and dance until the sun came up again. Gus would get a few hours of sleep before heading back into work again, and I’d repeat the cycle.

I burned through my meager savings staring at the ceiling fan on my bedroom ceiling, a can of cheap beer in one hand, my dignity in the other. I was numb, indifferent to my surroundings. I moved through my life in a haze of increasing self-loathing and depression. I numbed myself with alcohol. I grew accustomed to this new way of living, dependent on alcohol to keep my emotions at bay. To keep moving.

Eventually my money ran out – I had to sell my car and most of my belongings, spending my last dollar on a six-pack of cheap beer from the liquor store down the street. I drank all six before going home to beg my parents to let me move back in. They took one look at my rumpled appearance, my greasy hair, my unwashed body, and closed the door on my face. Gus couldn’t afford the rent on his own, and kicked me out. The rest of the group tapered off their communication with me – if we weren’t partying together, what did we really have in common?

Their rejection confirmed what I’d always feared – that I wasn’t enough. Not worthy of their time or attention, that beneath it all, I was still that awkward kid who sat alone at lunch in the cafeteria and spent my evenings walking around my neighbourhood until midnight or drowning everything out with music loud enough to numb my thoughts. Too weird to be friends with. Too quiet. Too alone.

I stood on the street with a cardboard box – the remainder of my meager belongings. I had nothing – no money, no home, no friends, no alcohol. My hands shook when I dialed the number. My little brother picked up on the third ring. He’d adopted my parent’s view of me: that I was average, ordinary, a disappointment. I asked him for help, thinking I could manipulate him into getting the money from my parents. He agreed, but only to pay the funds directly to a rehab center of his choice.

Reluctantly and with no other option, I agreed.

He got me a bed at a local center. I figured I could sneak something in, play along with their classes or principles or whatever bullshit until I could figure out what to do next, then bounce and get my next fix.

They don’t tell you how thorough their searches are.

They found everything. Everything except the mini liquor bottle hidden in the toe of my shoe.

They led me to my bunk, a bed in a room with twenty other men, and wearily, I lay down and fell asleep.

The first few days were hard, but a counsellor had come in to give us a speech on AA and the twelve steps to recovery.

“You have to want this, I mean really want it, or it’ll never happen for you. Acceptance comes from within, gentlemen. You’re the only one who can make a difference in your own lives.”

Acceptance comes from within.

A sentiment I’d struggled with my entire life. But the counsellor, his short beard graying, his glasses shiny and round, peered at me in earnest. Like he actually cared. And maybe, for the first time in my life, someone really did.

Acceptance comes from within.

It became my mantra, it changed my perspective on everything, on life. I sat on my bunk that night, staring hard at the mini alcohol bottle I’d smuggled in. I had never admitted it before, but it had some kind of power over me, a kind of dependence I’d never realized. A tool in furthering what I believed to be my acceptance of friends. To make me worthy. It was the only thing my friends had liked about me for so long, I’d forgotten that I was a person underneath the addiction and the alcohol.

Acceptance comes from within.

After hours of staring at the tiny bottle of amber liquid, I finally threw it out the window. Afterwards, in a fit of regret and shame, I’d pressed my hands against the glass of the window, desperately wishing I hadn’t done that, but also strangely triumphant.

I felt empty. The days that followed were some of the darkest of my life. Shakes, nausea, vomiting, sweating the substances from my body. My vision was weak, blurry, my senses somehow both overactive and numb. My nerves felt like fire, criss-crossing my body in hot stripes that screamed in agony as the dregs of alcohol made its way from my pores. I longed for that little bottle back, to numb the agony as my organs twisted and my body spasmed.

Acceptance comes from within.

My stomach cramped and my limbs shook, but it passed, mostly. I limped around the facility, anger and shame and triumph and self- pity and despair and pride all warring for their place in the forefront of my mind. But

Acceptance comes from within.

and I started to internalize it. Therapists helped, but that first counsellor had struck something deep inside, a string plucked the perfect chord of my heart, my soul.

He was right.

Maybe I could finally start letting myself off the hook. I could be worthy, without others telling me so. I could have purpose, without serving others. I could be sad or angry or broken and still be deserving of friendship, of love. Of acceptance.

My body healed, but the real outcome of rehab was the way it mended my mind, my soul. Maybe I no longer needed my parents’ approval, or a peer’s approval, or anyone’s approval really, to mold my way.

Maybe I only needed my own.