Drinking

I never had an Aunt Sally; in fact, I don't even know an Aunt Sally.  Somehow the character "Aunt Sally" coalesced in my brain a few months back.  I didn't realize it at first, but I think she's a caricature of me.

Aunt Sally has a mysterious past.  The children in the family don't really know why she's different, but she is.  Aunt Sally sits cross legged on the couch with her oversized turtleneck and her oversized coffee.  Both of her props are to keep her warm.  Aunt Sally has strong opinions about sunflower butter, swiss chard, and flax.  There's something in Sally that is used up; she doesn't seem to miss it, but something is spent.  She still looks young, but the kids are shocked to find out she's old too!  Aunt Sally got spread too thin a few too many times and she had to slow way down.  Aunt Sally only wants you to come over and eat supper with her and her cats.  You'll be shocked when you find out she has a girlfriend and a tattoo.

Have you read that "introverts give energy to others and extroverts get energy from others?"  Aunt Sally probably doesn't subscribe to simplistic and outdated psychology, but she is an introvert.  It takes her days of green tea and cucumber salad to detox from a crowd.  Aunt Sally is forgetting the temporary insanity that leads to that first bottle of whiskey.  She and I don't get tricked so easily anymore by the temptation of a quick but ephemeral fix.  Whiskey is never a Chronic Present, not even for an antiseptic (more on that later.)


Self assured dorks of all varieties milled around the Poster Room.  These scientists and students were appraising each of the 200 6'x4' posters, slowly, one at a time.
The poster dance goes:
1) find a partner with a similar interest
2) go look at research posters in that category
3) come back to the table for complementary wine
4) repeat.

I was presenting a paper on the population dynamics of an aquatic salamander.  I had an awesome macro photograph and some cool micrographs of the salamanders, so my poster was eye catching.  In groups of three or four, socially awkward researchers approached me and my poster to nod approval.  Occasionally,  the groups would have a "designated complimenter."  I don't remember any of these people at all.  However, I do remember the girl two posters down.  She was loud and engaging.  She had a need  to communicate something.  I never did see her poster but I was convinced her research was much more important than mine.  Attention waned from the posters to the silent auction.  So I left when I ran out of complementary wine tickets and I walked to the gas station.

I was in Corpus Christi at a gas station feeling terrible.  I missed my family.  I got a tearing aching pain in my chest when I realized I couldn't just go home to my Group.  I went out behind the gas station to vomit and cry. I had three hours of sunlight to find a bottle of whiskey, crawl inside it, and wait out the pain.  This pain is hard. It's the insatiable longing caused by unrefundable wasted time.

"You alright, man?"  I pictured a small Hispanic man based on the voice but Ed was not small.  There he was, big and fat, smoking a joint, with a concerned smile.

He extinguished the hot cherry with saliva moistened fingers. "You alright?" The used roach went into a clean Skoal can.

"Yeah, just sick."  This deception was involuntary.  I'd decided that addiction and mental illness counted as being "sick" long ago.

I don't remember if he offered me a ride or if I asked but I got into his manual Nissan Sentra and I barely fit in the passenger compartment.  He got his enormous bulk in with practiced ease.  He was impressive simply because he had no hesitation helping.  When I think of a "Local", I think of Ed.  I imagine Ed being an important fixture at that gas station, a Local, just protecting those in his domain.

I politely declined a hit off the Ed-spit joint while we headed down empty beach roads to my hotel.  Ed stopped us at a public beach and I told him I wanted to walk back to my place.  I offered him a little cash but he refused.  Then he asked me what I was doing there anyway.

Ed and I talked about salamanders for a while but he was primed to talk about life.  That was his area of expertise, I suppose.  He was the first person I told about my budding alcoholism.  He got it and apologized about the weed.  I waved off the unnecessary apology.  We had a few more moments of camaraderie before he had to slide into that car and jam the gear shift into his thigh to get to 1st.

"Stay strong, bro!"Ed's left shoulder and chest look like they're expanding out the driver window.

The cycle was still in effect despite Ed's efforts.  First came pain and anxiety.  I needed to get home to my kids and Lauren. I was wasting my time.  Twenty four hours in every day and I flew out here to waste three days at a convention!? Next came the whiskey. It doesn't matter if I do only virtuous and honorable things while I'm drunk, the regret and shame will be just as bad as if I'd committed crimes.  Guilt is the next step.  In my cycle, guilt is the mature version of shame.  Shame is the naked humiliation of losing your job.  Guilt is a bit more sophisticated.  Guilt requires ownership of the problem and a lack of execution.

Back at home, I got sober in a few days but until then I didn't help with the house or the kids.  I wasn't a husband.

The worst part of a drinking problem is detoxing.  Alcohol withdrawal can be fatal, folks.  Get help if possible.  Unfortunately, there are almost no resources near for that kind of thing.

Based on my observations, mine is not a typical drinking routine, but here it is anyway.
Day 0-still drinking
Day 1-"cut back" until the last bottle is empty
Day 2- shakes, vomiting, diarrhea, anxiety, and shame.  All day and night.
Day 3- muscle cramps, dehydration, hypoglycemia, deep dark shame and depression.  All day and night.
Day 4- fluids will begin staying down this afternoon.  Some calories may be consumed without fear of gastric reprisal.
Days 5-10- Dream-heavy sleep only for an hour at a time.  Feeling great in the daytime! Relatively, that is.
Days 11-30-  This is the "bipolar high."  I tried hard to "make up" for all the lost time and mistakes of drinking and I would devote myself to running a home.  Projects gave me a sense that even though I had addiction and mental illness, I could be a great parent.  I wanted to cook and read to the boys.  We needed to go to group play or the library.  But it could never have been enough, I wasn't doing the work for the sake of itself.  I was trying hide my negative side with my positive side.
Day 31-40- A trigger usually restarts this cycle.

During years of my life, the above struggle was my monthly routine.  Not drinking on day 3 takes everything out of me.  A few times, I was able to force some vodka down during day three.  Vodka on day three is the greatest relief I've felt.  Whiskey is just too gut wrenching at this point. When the alcohol finds the receptors, all of the problems dissipate.  I would quit shaking and be able to eat.  With a little vodka on day 3, I could contribute to the household.  Just a little and I could work on making up for my transgression.  Vodka on day 3 is not a Chronic Present.  Vodka on Day 3 changes it to Day 0.

I was on Day 371 when I got the email that I'd lost my teaching job.  I'm on Day 374 now.  I don't know what's supposed to happen on Day 375 and beyond.  Lauren told me sometimes it was a relief when I would start drinking again because at least we'd know what to expect for a few days.  This morning, I was tired and shaky with anxiety.  But out here, there are Rituals to do and Chronic Presents to find.  There were eggs to pick in the hen room.  Feeders needed filling everywhere. Trough ice had to be broken. Sometime, during morning barn chores, my shaking stopped and my vision cleared.  This happens so unexpectedly sometimes it surprises me.  It happens when my mind is empty and my hands are busy.  I looked down at the ice chunks I'd automatically tossed out of the trough.  I forgot if it was Day 375 or 17 or 0 because I realized I was really doing it.