Sobriety Around Non-Sober People

As a former trainwreck of society, I dumped my share of toxic damage on many loved ones and even a few strangers while sifting through my twenty year ‘it’s not me, it’s you’ phase. It was something I was ashamed of after a sober realization in the middle of the night when I sat up in bed screaming, “I am a monster bound for a sweltering hell!” But after successful and even a few unsuccessful amends to those tied to my ‘train tracks of redemption’ I see my part in all of it. When I was still actively using, I wore a mask of self-righteous indignation, and I destroyed anyone who didn’t cosign my bullshit.

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Image: WikiImages

Fast-forward eleven years, and through hard work, determination and a lot of ‘for fuck’s sake’ moments, I have seen the error of my behavior and have now crossed the bridge to unwillingly watching non-sober people try to live their non-sober lives.

I am not talking about people who drink casually or have wine with dinner a couple of times a week. Drowning in addiction is a terrifying thought… and it isn’t something that becomes apparent immediately, which is more terrifying. Most times, we have no idea there is a problem until it is too late. Although every knock on the door is a storm of chaos and turmoil saying “What’s the worst that could happen?” we do not possess the ability to recognize we are the eye of that storm until it literally destroys our life.

“But for the Grace of God, there go I.”

I am currently working on a memoir because my story is important; it is important for me to write as much as it is important for people to read. Hell, it is possible as you read this you know someone who just cannot get their shit together – maybe they hide bottles in the house and car – or maybe it is you. I share my story to help those who are still sick and suffering.

When I run into a new version of the old me, I have to stay and deal because honestly, these people are put in my path for a reason. While my initial thought is to get this person in a sober headlock and bombard them with catch phrases, famous quotes, and literature, I am confident this will just scare the shit out of them, so I have to resort to stern subtlety.

Stern subtlety: Not cosigning their bullshit but not making them feel inhuman.

I have someone in my life right now who refuses to understand that while bad things don’t happen every time they drink, every time something bad does happen, they were drinking. And I want to grab this person and shake them and somehow get footage and lowlight reels from when I was their age and in a whirlwind of chaos, but I can’t do that.

I can’t save her.

I have to remind myself I cannot save anyone… salvation lies within, my friends. Instead, I have to sit and listen… really listen… and yeah, maybe throw a few slogans their way if the opportunity arises, but mostly I just sit and listen… and hope like hell they get it sooner than later.

“Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I rebuilt my life.” J.K. Rowling

If you think you have a problem with drinking, please visit:

http://www.aa.org/

If you love someone with a problem and don’t know how to deal, please visit:

http://al-anon.org/

Blessed Be.

Infected By Football

When I was seven, I had been out playing Barbies with my little friends down the street and had enough of the girly power trips.  I sat with Barbie in hand while Barbie was ordered around by my sprightly friends.  “I think my mom is calling me for dinner,” I fibbed as I picked up Barbie’s belongings.

It was a Sunday, and that meant a big spaghetti and meatball dinner with my family.  Well, my family and about three of my dad’s good buddies.   My mom, sister and I would sit at the dinner table while my dad and his pals would sit on the couch with t.v. trays coupled with ice-cold cans of Bud as the sounds of whistles, boos and cheers came from the television.  Those were the sounds of professional football.

I noticed something on that first of many increasingly cold Sundays and that was that football was important.  I mean, to sit on the couch and not move except to run up the steps to go pee or to play darts for about ten minutes in the middle of whatever this football thing was, football had to be very important.

So one cool day in November, I sat on the floor next to where my dad sat on the couch and I started asking questions.   What were the flags for?  Why did that guy hit that other guy?  Why did a guy in an opposite uniform catch the ball?  My dad and his friends answered my questions while chuckling.

Some years went by and I was twelve now.  I remember being in English class and our teacher for the day was a substitute.  That substitute thought he’d keep us amused for the whole period by handing us a paper to match “NFL teams with cities”.  I matched all of them correctly in  six minutes.  The teacher couldn’t believe it.  The class couldn’t believe it.  Hell, I couldn’t even believe it.

It seemed knowing football was important.

When the Philadelphia Eagles went to the Super Bowl in 1980 and lost to the Oakland Raiders, I wasn’t too upset because I hadn’t quite grasped the devastation of losing a championship at such a young age.

When the Denver Broncos went to the Super Bowl in 1987 it was five days before my 14th birthday.  I’m not sure when or why I grew a fondness for the John Elway and the Denver Broncos.  Still very much a child, I had hand crafted signs on notebook paper doodled with orange and blue D’s and stick figured horses.  The number 7 was doodled on those pages as well, and even though I was a Philly native, that 7 was not for Ron Jaworski.

Denver was crushed by the New York Giants 39-20 that night in Pasadena, California.  When the game was over I ripped down my signs made with great care and cried.  My mom hugged me as she stroked my long, brown hair.  My dad and the rest of his slovenly crew were guffawing in the front room as they played darts.

I cried myself to sleep that night while I couldn’t get next season off my mind.