For an “alcoholic”, there is only one problem– alcohol.
At that first AA meeting, when I raised my hand and said, “I’m Quinn and I’m an alcoholic”, I bargained with myself that it was some sort of truth. Major regrettable events had transpired which, without alcohol, would have been mere forgettable incidents. I have problems associated with alcohol, like a racist has problems associated with race. So, I’m an alcoholic, right?
No, I’m not– and I won’t call myself that again.
I’ve never liked the term “racist”, either.
This “alcoholic” thinking is dangerous. Instead of calmly evaluating and confronting anxieties, one turns them into opportunities to triumph over this demon they’ve concocted as their nemesis. That bottle of vodka is your Moriarty. You dreamt that he beat your mother when you were a kid, or maybe he was a priest you remembered touching you in your private place. Nevermind reality. It’s a matter of degrees, and even then it’s inconsequential if you’re substituting fighting your real problems with defeating an imaginary enemy.
I went to an SOS meeting today– day six of sobriety. The longer I’m sober, the less I think it really matters.
Surely, I lose control when drunk. Surely, I make bad decisions. With sex. With driving. Probably some other things I either can’t remember or on which I’m taking the Fifth (750ml), but many I recall slapping myself over in the shower the morning after.
How could I have been so stupid? Why would I have risked that? What was I thinking?
I was stupid. I was reckless. I was not thinking.
Being drunk cranked up the volume, but it was my tune, and it wasn’t booze singing it– it was me.
Walking down the stairs of my empty office building tonight, going home late as has been lately, that “alcoholic thinking” popped into my head, and I had to shake it out in disgust. I’ve got real problems. A lot of them. I don’t want to live. If every cell in me wasn’t screaming to continue its miserable life and I could just flip an “off” switch, I’d be long gone by now. Living without a will to live is a problem. Not even wanting to want to live is a problem. “High-functioning sociopathy”, “depersonalisation”, “generalized anxiety”, “severe chronic depression”.
Alcohol makes those problems worse, but alcohol ain’t my problem.
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