Just Don’t Drink

Writer’s note: This is my recent and very true story. None of this is embellished and these were my actual thoughts as they were evolving. Please read to the end. Yes I was damaged and messed up but I sorted it all out 🙃.

Just Don’t Drink:

I decided to give up alcohol altogether. Well, it was highly recommended to me by the state after my second DUI in less than three years, as long as I’m interested in enjoying life outside of a detention center.

To stay free, albeit with restrictions to my normal, carefree, rules-be-damned lifestyle, all I had to do was stop drinking. So I did. It was begrudging at first. Who is anyone to tell me what to do? But alas, at some point someone gave them authority over my autonomy, so it’s compliance or confinement.

Where to start? What should be my first steps? They want me to spend ten days in jail (I’m not doing that) or voluntarily go to rehab… excuse me, “recovery.” I don’t belong locked up with these freaks. I’m not an addict or an alcoholic. I can quit whenever I want. Pay no attention to the fact that I can’t even drink without driving. But I’m sure, when I set my mind to it, I can just not drink. Seems arbitrary, but if it shuts everyone up, then fine.

But these people seem pretty okay. Actually, they are downright pleasant and kind. They clearly see I’m uncomfortable and have been extremely welcoming. Their exteriors look a bit rough, but look how creative they are. Is that a Bible? It is. And it’s a nice one too. He’s just reading it out in the open. Is she reading a Bible too? This is not the spiritual awakening I was expecting to happen in this place. But what do I know? I’ve not yet been to a single group class.

First class of the day is meditation. What new-age, hippie-dippy crap is this going to be? Do I have to go to these, or can I pass the required ten-day stay in my room? The counselor says if I don’t go to class, my insurance won’t pay. I guess I’ll try it.

This counselor looks insane. She looks like a hippie and a meth addict had a baby. She talks about her life… it seems that a hippie and a meth addict did, in fact, have a baby. She is the outcome. That, and a life of struggle with heavy drug use and domestic and sexual abuse. This meditation and breathing stuff helped her get her life together? I guess I will give it a chance.

The harmonic chimes and Buddha statues in this YouTube serenity scene are a calming vibe. Breathe in deep for four seconds, hold for two, and release for six. It seems arbitrary, but I’ll comply. I am feeling more relaxed. Am I buzzing? I think my body is buzzing! There’s a vibration surging throughout me. It’s not my phone, because they took it at check-in and locked it away. What kind of black magic is this? I like it.

Now she is going to read a poem that she wrote. It babbles mostly, and there’s lots of incoherent runoff. But who am I to judge? I haven’t written anything decent in at least a decade. It’s inspiring that she writes. And she is preparing for a spoken-word poetry slam. I hope she doesn’t embarrass herself, but also, good for her! She is putting herself and her art out there. This is giving me an idea for a story… or maybe it’s a poem? I don’t know. I’ve been out of the writing game too long. Either way, I’m inspired to create with my words again. There might be something to this meditation.

I run to my room and scribble my idea into the pink notebook they gave me at orientation. By “orientation,” I mean when the nurse took all of my things to be sanitized and handed me this pink notebook after having just peeked up my naked ass with the assistance of another young nurse. It was a bit emasculating, but this whole experience has me questioning reality and social dynamics.

My roommate is a nice Latino kid. He’s in his twenties, with tattoos up his neck. Despite our nearly two-decade age gap and the clear discrepancy in our appearance, he reminds me of home. I look mid-Atlantic, white-bred, but I actually grew up poor. I was the only white boy in an urban neighborhood. This kid looks almost exactly like my childhood best friend. I wonder how he is. I was closer to this kid’s age the last time we spoke. I should look him up when I get out of here.

There are only two things sacred within these walls: the food and the smoke breaks. I don’t smoke, and I only eat to survive. Mostly because decades of daily drinking has wreaked havoc on my digestion and taste buds. I haven’t found pleasure in food since I started taking pleasure in drink. I don’t know if it’s the green-and-white antidepressants they gave me as part of detox, but this is the best shrimp Alfredo I’ve ever had in my life. I don’t even usually like pasta.

Time for class again. This one is about the science of the nervous system. I’m fascinated by the connection between the vibration I was feeling while breathing and the vagus nerve that runs throughout my body. You mean there is actual science to back this meditation stuff? You’re sure I wasn’t just temporarily possessed by a demon? The images of the vagal nerve system touching every part of your body tracks. It’s the basis of the book Frankenstein but the science, sciences. I’ve always been a bit of a nerd when it comes to science and psychology, but I haven’t read anything significant in some time. I should take this break to read again.

Despite the smugness of this clearly academic-smart but personality-devoid “doctor,” this class discussion actually fascinates me. I think I will make this a regular aspect of my life, both the breathing and learning how to regulate my nervous system. I’ve never felt so in tune with myself and the people around me. And that’s saying a lot, because these people look insane and scary on the outside, but somehow I feel connected to their souls. I’m acutely aware of how similar we are despite the differences on our faces. It’s like we’ve all had the same internal sensitivities and struggles. They don’t feel understood, and I never have either. Did we all just become best friends?

I’m finding my place among these new friends. They often look to me for direction. Why me? I haven’t felt relied upon since my wife rejected me as a husband and told my children I was an unfit and unloving father. I started believing her. But now, with this time to sit with my thoughts and feelings, I know this can’t be true. Everything I do that’s good is for my family. Loving them and caring for them is a core value for me.

Core values? I guess I have those. What else is important to me? I should make time for those things as well. Is that called self-care, and not selfish, like my soon-to-be ex-wife made me feel? If I do more of that, being sober might not completely suck.

Today I have my first therapy appointment with a psychologist. I’ve been meaning to do this for years, but everyone else’s needs came first. I’m crazy but functional. Everyone else’s needs took precedence over mine. There is nowhere for me to go and nothing to do but this, so I’ll give it a shot. Maybe she will want to hear all these poems and short stories I’ve been writing every day since being here. They have been therapeutic for me, without a doubt.

My therapist is a sassy young Black woman. I couldn’t have asked for someone better. She is kind, supportive, and complimentary. She also doesn’t mind telling me that the woman I had an affair with isn’t worried about what’s best for me or my family… or hers, for that matter. It hurt, but I needed to hear it.

These few days without receiving messages from her have made this clearer. My need for intimacy and acceptance and love led me back to her after she broke my heart ruthlessly twenty-plus years ago. I hate to admit it, because I didn’t want it to be true, but she hasn’t changed. And by giving in to her cries of emotional abuse, I became the selfish user. I gave my wife everything she needs to prove to others, and herself, that I deserve her hate. But I wasn’t like this when she started to hate me. This is who she has turned me into.

My therapist says I need to take responsibility for my actions and take my time before making decisions so I make better choices. But also, she can tell from my writing there is a depth to me that’s gone ignored and unappreciated. She called me a genius. I mean, she has the degree, so I’ll take it.

More days like these: meditation, educational groups, AA/NA meetings, therapy, occasional group outings, music and art therapy, games and movies as a group, and drama… so much drama.

I have grown to love this band of misfit toys. We grew very close, very fast. That’s what happens when you are locked in together and working on your inner demons. Sometimes things become very high school. Like when the women all synced up on their cycles. That led to a couple of days of hell and drama and a sit-down disciplining from the recovering heroin addict in charge of our administrative oversight.

I knew the reason for the tension before the women did. I accidentally read Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret when I was twelve, right before my parents divorced and I was forced to live with only my mother and sister. Then I had a wife and daughter. An intimacy with female menstruation has been my constant companion for the three decades since.

I learned something during those adolescent, bickering days in rehab. I learned that I have risen above daily pettiness and pressure from others to get involved in matters that don’t concern me. This was the drive of my addiction. I needed a release from the bounds of peer pressure to engage in things that do not interest me.

A funny thing happens. Everyone seems to respect me for it. They call me positive and unaffected. Who is this person I am becoming again that can outthink his impulses? In this place I’ve been cast in a childlike, leader, Peter Pan–type character in what feels like an audition for a high school play. Oh yeah… I used to like theater and culture and the arts. Maybe I should get back into that.

It’s graduation day. I’m excited but also afraid to leave. I’ve only craved a drink one time while being in here, and it was when I was triggered by the condescending “doctor” who thinks I’m too fragile for deep EMDR therapy. You don’t know me! You think you are smart, but you’ve met your match, asshole. My therapist says I’m a genius, and winning rehab in just ten days has given me just enough delusion to prove it. But also, I sense that a balance of humility and modesty will serve me as well.

I will seek a therapist that can give me the deep dive, just-shy-of-shock-treatment I desire. I’ve gotten a taste for an intentional brain, and I like it.

It’s my first full day on the streets again. I’m ecstatic to see my daughter and implement the healthy new habits I’ve developed, but I also feel the loss of my support community. I crave the presence of other like-minded individuals with the same struggles as me. I feel alone.

I decide to test my newfound resolve, because I’m a masochist who is constantly proving his mettle. I walk into the same bar that I drank at the night of my recent DUI. I’m determined not to drink. This will prove I can do it.

I see a flyer for a comedy open mic tonight. This is serendipitous, because the day before my departure from recovery, I was having a conversation with a fellow resident that I’ve always wanted to do stand-up comedy, if only to hang out with the comics. They seem like the kind of people I can relate to. They laugh at life’s inequities, and nothing is ever taboo. That suits me perfectly. His reply was that it’s never too late to start.

Now here I stand, with the fortuitous opportunity.

I say I’m just going to watch, but these comics already see something inside of me and encourage me to participate. I know now they just needed unfunny fodder to make them look funnier. But something is happening. People are laughing.

I made them laugh telling the story of the night I got my DUI after leaving this very bar. For some reason, I’m no longer ashamed of what I’ve done. They seem to be in on the joke and can relate to my experience. It even has brought them joy to laugh with me at my misery, not at me behind my back.

Is this the outlet I’ve been searching for? Is this the means by which I can release my disdain for human constructs that are arbitrary when they aren’t self-serving to the ones that enact society’s rules? Now I get to make fun of them, and people laugh along with me? I don’t ever want to stop doing this.

Very quickly, my life is changing for the better. I’m more consistent in showing love to my daughter. I’m reliable, and she comes to me unguarded. I have more energy to exercise, doing it as much for my brain as my body. I meditate daily and breathe daily, and I immediately feel when my nervous system is out of whack. More importantly, I’m able to quickly get it back in check.

I feel closer to my fellow man more than I ever have, because I see how much we are alike and not all the ways I’m different. I feel closer to God because I now see what He sees in my neighbor, and as a result, what He might see that is good in me.

My whole life is better now, and it all started with making that first and since daily good decision…

just don’t drink.