“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.
