The Living Dead

I was fifteen or fourteen when I first got drunk at lunch. I lived across the street from my school and would go home for lunch sometimes. One day, I noticed my dad’s bottle of vodka. He didn’t usually keep hard liquor around the house, his drink was beer. Coors. Which he believed to be purer than the other beers because it was German and they didn’t use union labor.

I ate my peanut butter and jelly sandwich and looked at the bottle. I can’t remember why but I decided to try it. So, I poured out a nice stiff drink into a glass of orange juice and drank it down.

The heat of the booze filled me from stomach to forehead. I think of it now like a video game, where the character is almost out of health, takes a potion, and you see his health meter refill. Alcohol refilled my health meter. And when it topped me all the way up, that health meter sparkled and I felt the angel’s kiss on the top of my head.

I don’t remember that day at school. I know that I didn’t get into trouble. No one noticed that I was drunk. Or probably more accurately, the people who noticed that I was acting weird or smelled funny didn’t do or say anything.

I think it was a Friday. Or maybe it was the next day. It was over 30 years ago and I have since drank a lot of alcohol so let’s just say it was a Friday. I remember that Mom and Dad were going to go out that night, that they said they were going to stay out late, and that I was in charge. All I remember clearly was being excited that I could stay up late, watch George Romero’s Night of the Living dead, and drink again.

“They’re coming to get you Barbara!”

I sat up alone, watching a zombie movie, drinking vodka. How was I supposed to know that sitting alone in my living room, watching old movies, and drinking half a bottle of booze would be the pattern of my life?

When I drink now, that’s what I do: I sit and watch TV alone. I had to quit going to bars. When I drink my acid tongue gets me in trouble. I lash out at people at the bar and online. I say things I regret. Sometimes I even hurt my good friends, people I love and respect.

So I quit going to bars, it was too hard to deal with the consequences. Plus, even for a selfish old alcoholic, I knew that drink driving was tantamount to running around shooting a gun off into the air: eventually I was going to hurt someone.

So, for the last 18 months, usually Sunday, after the Arsenal match, after I dropped Avie off at her mom’s. I get out my pack of smokes and a bottle of Whiskey, and drink until I pass out. Then I wake up at 9pm and sometimes I finish whatever whiskey was in the bottle, other times I just toss and turn until I get up at 3am. Then I get up and go to work.

What’s the harm, right? I’m not hurting anyone but myself. Ok, maybe I’m robbing my daughter of a father when she’s 25 and needs him to be there for her.

And I’m not telling anyone this for sympathy. I’m telling you this because the conception is that alcoholics “go to meetings”. But we don’t. We go to work. We write blogs. We pretend to be sober. We pretend that everything is all right. We justify our behavior through a combination of solipsism and abnegation. And when that doesn’t work, we will just punch you in the face, literally or figuratively. And when that doesn’t work, we will hide in some corner of the world watching Zombie movies. Brave people go to meetings. Courageous people deal with their alcoholism.

I don’t want you to respond with empathy, pity, or congratulations. Also, please, don’t ask me for answers. I don’t have them. I don’t speak for AA or psychologists, your therapist, your doctor, or substance abuse counselors. I have no idea what I’m talking about (which never stopped me from writing before! AH CHA CHA!).

The other reason to talk about this openly is because I feel like it’s important to shine light on the cockroaches in our kitchen. If alcoholism, for me, is about lying and hiding, then doing the opposite of that is probably going to be a good thing. Or maybe not! Like I said, I don’t know.

How about that win yesterday over Rennes, eh? Good to see Emery embracing his best attacking players. The crowd was great and we got a clean sheet on top of everything else. Great match, now we move on to play Napoli. The draw was a bit unlucky, I really wish we had gotten one of the weaker teams. Not much else to say about that, really.

Back in 1985 I got in trouble, one of the rare times, usually I get away with the drinking, lying, cheating, and selfishness. I think it was the next night. Dad had been drinking beer and went to get some vodka and it was watered down. He was furious. I had stolen his booze. I think he wanted to beat me. Beat me up. Like you would do to a fellow drunk in a bar who had stolen your drinks or your money. My mom stepped in and I got sent to my room. She always stepped in.

I didn’t have any precocious teen thoughts. I just went to my room and read a book. I wouldn’t even understand any of the complexities and nuances behind any of this for over 30 years. Complexities isn’t the right word. This is just how my family operated. We lied, we stole, we cheated (ourselves and everyone else), we fought terrific battles, had huge blow outs, and all so that we could sit up late at night watching the Living Dead, being the Living Dead.

Qq