Northward Midget

Author: Quinn

  • 72 Hours and Two In a Row

    Second night at AA.  I didn’t talk much this time beyond the obligatory “I’m Quinn and I’m an alcoholic”, “Hi, Bill”, “Thank you, Bill.”

    I gave my number to a good looking guy, my age or (probably) younger.  I am regretting this.  It brings on the kind of anxiety I had when the ex-wife and I gave our number to a “friendly” waiter at Raj Mahal who turned out to be an Amway drone.

    That’s what AA reminds me of– a cult.  Not in the Jonestown sense, but like any group who have cultivated in their mind some shared way of life, but they’ve given up something for it.  They’ve given up their self, their skepticism, their suspicion.  That is not always a good thing.  Most of the time, “surrendering” to a “power” (higher or lower) is a very, very bad thing.    There’s a reason we’re cautious around strangers, and that reason (logic) was borne of countless generations of evolution and experience

    A few people got their “coins” or “badges” or whatever awards they give.  Not as many hot women there tonight, which is probably why I described the guy above as “good looking”.  There is one that’s cute, and she made a cackling crack in response to someone else innocently mentioning “nuts”– that she hadn’t had nuts in a long time.

    I’m not there to date.

    Er, or fuck.

    I wonder if I’d be as “easy” sober.   Probably, and maybe sex-addict support groups would be more entertaining.

    Speaking of entertainment– AA meetings don’t seem to have much.   Some bad jokes are cracked and left to rot in the air of polite chuckles.   Occasionally someone will be a little clever.  Most of the time, it’s like a bad Henry Rollins “spoken word” show.   Well, a worse one, because those are pretty bad.  It’s like church as I remember and revile it from childhood, but instead of one man preaching, it’s the entire congregation testifying and genuflecting to the “Higher Power”, and telling everyone that if they don’t do that, they just ain’t gonna make it.

    There’s no cross-talk.  If someone wants to talk, they gotta jump in right after the “Thank you, Bill” with their “I’mCarlAndI’mAnAlcoholic”, ignore the others whose similar interjection waned into a tired “Hi, Carl” and start going off on their–

    Their stories.   Maybe my rant last night wasn’t as coherent and sublimely intelligent and borderline sexy-crazy as I’d thought it was, but it had to have been different, at least.  Someone must have appreciated.

    I’m not there to practice stand-up, either, so let’s get on with tonight’s bit of words.

    I was held up by the hot guy– I wanted to make the “SOS” meeting.  It was at 7:30 down Main St, a couple miles away.  “SOS” is “Secular Organizations for Sobriety” or “Save Our Selves”.   It’s a support group affiliated with the guys who brought us Skeptical Inquirer– the Center for Inquiry here in Amherst.  In that big list of self-help groups, this was the one I wanted to go to, but the AA was nearer and sooner, and I really just needed to be somewhere besides home wanting to drink.   More on wanting a drink later.

    The SOS meeting was at a Unitarian Universalist church.   The ex-wife and I had went there once for a secular Yule-tide celebration.  It bothered me– maybe more than a “normal” church.   Humanists.  They want “God Lite”.  They believe in the value of every person.  You’ll meet the most credulous skeptics there, and they’ll give you coffee and cookies and nod and smile and relate stories of their own “Higher Powers”.

    So, it’s church.

    SOS isn’t church.  This meeting just happened to be held in one.  The drive and front parking was nigh empty and I couldn’t see any lights inside, so I went around back, did a few donuts in the snow-covered back lot, and decided I might as well go home.

    On the way out, I saw a few of the cars alongside the drive, some with lights on, and I figured someone must be going there for something.  So, I pulled in, went to the door, followed the others to a room smaller than my own living room, took a chair, and in a few minutes we were all just talking, openly, with some cross-talk, but respectful and obliging.

    It started out kinda quiet.   Someone said the ol’ “You could hear a pin drop.”  Right after the full-stop in that statement I blurted, “I just got back from an AA meeting.”

    This was a good crowd of people.   A friendly hipster musician dude seemed to be herding the discussion with a mild hand.  There was a guy who was kind of a cross between Sam Kinison and Ben Stein.  A big guy who’d been through it all.  A guy who looked like a suburban neighbor.  A woman who’d literally drunk herself to death’s threshold– twice.

    This was communion.  This was fellowship– with goodfellas.

    There wasn’t a one of them I didn’t like.  Everyone was open and honest and went straight out with the worst of themselves– because they knew everyone else would understand.  Yeah, we’re all drunks.  We may not be drinking, but we’re all drunks.

    I’m gonna wind this down, because I’m tired– and that’s the point of these meetings and my writings.  Exhaust myself so I don’t have time to think about that existential maw that yawns for me.

    On wanting a drink– in the first half of tonight’s AA, someone asked if anyone in the room wanted a drink right now.  He wasn’t offering one– he just wanted a show of thirsty hands.   I didn’t raise mine.

    I really didn’t want a drink.

    That confused me, then frustrated me.  If I didn’t want a drink, why am I here?  Why am I doing this?  It seemed the answer was because the state was going to make me do it eventually– that drinking isn’t really a problem in itself but an enabler of bad choices.  I wasn’t thinking of going back to drinking– the train of thought was put in motion by not wanting to drink.

    I was just wondering why I was here.  In that room, at first, and then back to “here” as in “life”, and the rest of the meeting had me gritting my teeth with my arms folded and giving in to facial ticks.  Frustration.

    That’s always going to be with me, right?   I keep telling these people– I wasn’t “happy” before I started drinking heavily.  Drinking didn’t destroy my marriage.  Drinking didn’t make me more depressed.   On the contrary– drinking facilitated my being more social.  It gave me a lot of stories.  It made me a lot of friends.  I experienced things I wouldn’t have otherwise.

    It also put me in a mental hospital twice and jail a few times.

    Maybe what I’m asking is, “Am I an alcoholic?”

    Maybe the answer is “Does it matter?”

    Drinking has resulted in some poor decisions that could have cost me my freedom– and still could.  I’ve got two girls who need me, and I can’t risk indulging anything that would lubricate that slide into Hell.

    I’m not going to do it anymore.

     

  • 48 Hours and the First Meeting

    “My name is Quinn and I’m an … alcoholic.”

    Most of those present seemed to assume the pause before the term was because I was loathe to admit such a condition, but it was only that I wasn’t sure of the definition and did not want to misrepresent myself.  I was able to explain this later, in a lengthy rant where I used the terms “modern drunkard” and “high-functioning sociopath” and essentially said “This is not going to work– for me.”

    Kinda brought the room down, and I felt bad about it– and about politely dodging everyone’s attempt to bond with me through their own stories.

    They all seem to be “good” people.   They are driven to help others, in part or whole because it helps themselves.  I appreciate their zeal for the program, and I accept the real power of the phenomenon they are experiencing.  I will not belittle the good “it” has done for them.

    Yes, going to meetings after work every night will prevent me from coming home and drinking after work every night.

    Do I want an addiction to meetings?

    Do I want to be Jack’s Sense of Deliverance by Proxy?

    It’s been over 48 hours since I’ve been drunk– in both the senses of being sober and as the past tense of “drinking”.   I’ll be reasonably sure I’m not gonna break into a seizure after another five days.  Nothing’s went wrong yet, so maybe I exaggerated my dependency to the doctors who warned me of the dangers of alcohol withdrawal syndrome.  I’ve got my prescribed Klonopin and plenty of vitamins to help me through whatever may come, and spending an hour or so before bed writing is, if not particularly cathartic, a beneficial exercise of my word-smithing muscles.

    Mostly, I’m writing this to keep a record of what happens through the next month.  I regret not having kept more thorough record of my descent into abject misery after Memorial Day of 2011.

    My experience with publishing my life has not been positive.   I should probably keep this private, but I– I’ll keep them password-protected for now, and keep the titles vague enough to avoid damnation through documentation.

    I’m not giving up on self-help groups.  In addition to booze, I’m addicted to candid conversation and shameless honesty– and there’s plenty of that in these meetings.

    “My name is Quinn and I’m an alcoholic.”

    I don’t know what it means exactly, but at least it’s honest.

     

  • La Grange

    Never knew what I wanted to do with my life. That’s why I’m here with, well, with her.

    When I first heard “La Grange”, I didn’t believe it was ZZ Top. I know them as “Legs” and “Sharp Dressed Man” and that kinda jerk-it video shit from the 80’s. But, it was. It was them. They’re good. Maybe they stole that riff from Muddy Waters or somesuch Blues master. I dunno– but it’s good, and I wanted to play it.

    For weeks, I tried. I unhooked my Amazon-bought Epitone from the wall and– well, usually I’d spend a half hour looking for the cable to connect it to this cheap amp some acquaintance had given me. All I’ve ever found was the USB cable for Rocksmith. Total shit for learning guitar. Shame.

    But, “La Grange”. I wanted to play that. First I wanted to play “Wish You Were Here”, but if I could just do that riff from “La Grange”, I might be satisified forever.

    Satisfied forever. Yeah, she’s still here.

    I remember sixth grade, talking on a physical land-line phone to someone I’d left behind when my ma moved across town. We were both pledging we’d never want anything more than an Atari 2600.

    Funny.

    Pac-Man. Now, you go to the PC for the max graphics. The most real– that virtual breath on your face when you play–

    Breath.

    Breathe.

    “It’s all right. It’s good. You’re going soon.”

    I’m clicking this fucking PS4 controller trying to find “La Grange” because there is no Amazon Music app, and that’s where I “bought” it. Torrent sites don’t have it. Maybe others do, but I’m too lazy to spread my network of pirate booty-shoals.

    I’m done. It’s an update. I haven’t had much to say latel– Hold on.

    *skrick*

    There we go. All done.

    “Night, Hammy.”

    She was getting old.

    Can’t stomach a dead life what keeps on dyin’.

    Let it go. Better off dead, eh?

    o/~ But I
might
be
mis-
taken.         o/~