Telling a Story

Telling a Story

DAY 1

Once she’d thrown two plates, shattered on the kitchen floor behind me, I knew this was not the usual anger. Janie picked up a third plate, so I surrendered, apologized, and made a promise. That was yesterday.

Now I haven’t done what I promised. Mind you I didn’t say I wouldn’t drink. What I did say is I’d deal with my drinking. “Start dealing” is more precise. I said it to Janie, under great duress, that I’d get help. So, I’m going to a meeting. Since we moved in together, it’s been rules. More rules. And rules that explicate old rules. Don’t stack the dishes in the sink. Don’t leave towels on the bathroom floor. They seem reasonable enough individually. The tough one is no beer in the fridge. All this just so I can sleep in the same bed with her. She made a promise, too: her promise, and I believe her, is if I don’t get my shit together, I’m out on the street.

DAY 2

Sleepwalked through the day on the edge of a buzz. Didn’t get trashed. If Janie noticed, she didn’t say so, but she must have. I went to my first meeting sober. My first one couldn’t start on a lie. When the circle got to me, I said, “My first time. No name yet. Just exploring.” At least I wasn’t lying. I was hungover.

I probably should say what happened there. Isn’t that the purpose of a journal: Detail and feelings? People reciting prayers and cliches. A young woman, maybe 25 – attractive, a lot like Janie, angular face – stands up and cries. A real boo hoo. Like I’ve seen on TV except I wasn’t watching TV. Took 10 minutes to calm her down. She nodded to everyone’s questions: You alright? Still sober? Don’t want to talk about it right now? No pressure. A hand patting her shoulder. The woman was about 50. Too much makeup. A lot of eyeshadow, a blue that distracted if you asked me, but no one asked. An elderly man gave her his handkerchief. No wonder they both drink: one puts on a mask every morning and the other acts like he’s dressed for a role in a Shakespeare play.

DAY 3

We fought again this morning. A ripsnorter, as my granddad would’ve said. He had lots of expressions like that. Janie threw a pan at me and missed badly. I deserved it. She found four beers of a six-pack behind the couch. “God damn, I can’t trust you.” Didn’t argue but didn’t agree either. They weren’t in the fridge, but I kept that to myself. Picked up the pan and handed it back to her. I stepped close to her, daring her to try again. She didn’t. No boo hooing but tears leaked out. A quiet defeat. It was no victory for me, I can tell you.

DAY 6

I said my name today. Roger. Easy peasy. While I’m not one with these people, I like them. They don’t pester. I sit and listen. We’re in a damp church basement, the walls in need of a fresh coat of paint, pipes that make too much noise. The setting matches my mood. I’m getting to know them. An hour of listening calms me. It doesn’t last all day, but long into the afternoon. Instead of drinking six beers, slowly, now I drink four, slowly. My hands don’t shake so bad. Janie isn’t as naggy. She hasn’t accused me of anything. I get home and she tells me about her day, and I tell her about mine. Except I leave out the meetings. She doesn’t ask.

I haven’t told her about Emily. That’s the woman who cried on one day. She’s even better looking than I thought. She’s separated from a raging alcoholic husband. While she’s not a raging alky, she told me the difference is he can’t keep a job. She can. “For now, I guess. Without these meetings, who knows.” I’m arriving 15 minutes early and hanging around the coffee urn afterwards hoping to talk to her.

DAY 15

Our leader, a muscular Black dude, said, “Everybody’s got a story. The question is do you write it, or does it write you?” As he said this, he pointed a finger at a kid with acne and blonde hair and then swept the group until it landed back on the kid. The leader, Derrell, then turned the finger back at himself.

DAY 16

Never thought of my life as a story. So, here goes: smart: I was #3 in my high school class; athletic: played four varsity sports – football, basketball, tennis, and baseball; and popular: junior year dated the Homecoming queen, and senior year went with the head cheerleader. Charmed life is a phrase that comes to mind. That’s what the public saw. Not what happened at home. There, it was a combo of shit and clown shows. Dad a functioning alcoholic until Friday evening. Mom a jellyfish who always sided with Dad regardless. I don’t blame her; she feared him. Before I get totally blotto, I land in a spot where I understand why she did that: she was protecting us, keeping him from blowing up on us. She wasn’t as successful as she could have been. So that’s why I drink: to forget. It takes a lot of beer to forget a lot.

DAY 17

We fought again. Nothing thrown. I never throw things, not even a snarky comment. I’ve been going to meetings. Only missed one day (she didn’t know) and haven’t had more than two beers a day in a week. I’m sleeping better. More attentive. I think the expression is “present.”

I was washing the dishes, mostly hers but she’s washed a lot of my dishes over the last few months. Enters the kitchen and slams her purse on the counter. No “how was you day?” or “you’re not going to believe what happened to my boss today” (she hates him). Instead, “Something’s going on.” She stands in the doorway, her left shoulder leaning against the jamb, arms crossed. Casual-like, except I know it’s not. She hasn’t really been mad in a while, and I’ve forgotten how pretty she is when upset. Her features, chin, cheeks, and eyes, all tighten, age lines disappearing.

“You’re not yourself. Yes, we’re not fighting, but is that the same thing as getting along?”

I’m not myself. True, I’m not drinking or barely doing so, but I’m also still withholding. Which self am I: the drinking liar or the almost clear liar? Drinking gave me permission to withhold anything, my feelings, what mattered, the truth, whatever. The alcohol is a mask, quite ugly, but not nearly as ugly as what lies beneath it.

DAY 34

There are two parts to every relationship, direct and indirect. The direct is what’s going on between Janie and me. When I was drinking hard, we were like two hot coals that if bumped into each other burned severely. Third degree. Scalding and boiling. Peeling sheets of skin. Yet, there were moments when the heat created a flame, comforting and bright. Not dangerous. Illuminating.

We don’t stay together to burn ourselves. That’s the by-product of our intensities, my drinking, her mothering, whatever.

Now, we’re more like cooling ashes. Even mixed up and blown on won’t restart the fire.

The indirect part of relationships is what’s going on the outside, beyond her apartment, our sex life, idle chit chat, and serious conversations. The rest of the world. That’s harder for us to deal with now. Or maybe it’s me.

DAY 41

Emily causes that dying fire. Janie doesn’t know that. But she suspects. Emily and I connect. I help her not drink. She helps me. Although we’re not each other’s sponsors – both too hopelessly new to this ‘sober’ thing – we text and talk a lot. She has helped me stand up and say, ‘Name’s Roger and I’m an alcoholic.’ It didn’t happen in one easy step. Initially I stood and said, ‘Roger.’ Nothing else. Next, no name, only ‘I’m a drunk.’ Couldn’t say ‘alcoholic;’ too scientific, too formal, too real. Drunk is a moment. Alcoholism is a lifestyle.

Emily and I were having coffee one day, a couple of hours before meeting. It was serendipity. Bumped into each other and then shared a table. It felt like flirting. We played a game called 25 Questions in which each of us asked a question that had to be answered. The game evolved into telling our drinking back stories. “When was your first drink?” Me: 11 years old, stealing Dad’s Jax beer. He had an odd habit of drinking five of six out of a six-pack, so I polished off the lone cowboys. Her: 22 after getting her first serious job. You get the point.

Question 20 was ‘where are your emotions right now?’ I said, “I don’t love Janie. Love the sex, but without alcohol, that’s not enough.” Emily smiled. Her answer: “Right in front of me.”

That little devil that used to push me into bars, ordering two drinks too many, reared its ugly horned head. Only so many devilish moments can be suppressed. Maybe you didn’t know, but that’s addiction. I’m learning.