An Alcoholic's Toast

I’ve always been the social recluse type, though most who meet me would never guess it.  It would seem almost contradictory that I’ve spent most of my adult life in a teaching role, but there you have it.  My love of analogy makes it possible for me to take any topic of discussion and wrap it in words familiar enough to each student (based on her or his background) that they come to own the information as solidly as if they’d thought of it themselves.
I’ve been told my teaching style is gregarious and funny, open and perceptive, confident and inspiring.  And I know it’s true.  I’m gifted in the art of extemporaneous speaking.

Maybe it’s because I grew up backstage in the theatre (my parents started a theatre company when I was 3 and I still sometimes joke that I was raised by a band of gypsies), but I’ve always been more comfortable in front of a crowd than when meeting people one-to-one.  Somehow it is much more vulnerable to be seen up close by a few than as a spectacle by many.

There are many factors that contributed to my eventual addiction to drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, what-have-you... but I think at the root of it was in some sense an effort to maintain this sense of distance from the “audience”.  Since beginning the long journey back to squeaky-clean (my only vice now is sugar) I’ve come to appreciate vulnerability in a new way.  I understand it now as a kind of strength.  The tell-tale tummy quivers and sudden prompts for a deep breath that used to indicate danger are now signals that growth is immanent.

In the days when I was almost perpetually “altered” I was rather prolific in my creative life.  I’d rely on the substance of the day to allow me access to the inner place where such wonder resided that I could simply tap it and watch words, colors, shapes and ideas flow without the least bit of actual work on my part.  It was exhilarating to watch art pouring out of me.  During the most ambitious phase of my substance-abuse career, I became somewhat “known” in certain artsy circles.
I also came to feel like a complete fraud.

I felt that what was expressing itself on those pages was not, as I’d thought, parts of me that I could not access without drink or drug (If they were parts of ME, why the hell could I not access them on my own after all?), but rather that I was the vehicle the intoxicants were using to express themselves.  I didn’t want to be in such a partnership any longer. 
I burned the art.

All of this is to say that now that the last drink, the final illicit toke, the day I broke the needle- now that all these are years behind me - there is only me to be found on any page bearing my moniker.  For better or worse, the only “enhancement” available to me now is my willingness to plumb the depths of my being, to be real, to be vulnerable.

It makes me feel strong to face the page on my own terms.  I have fortitude to survive and overcome, and I am mighty beyond my own reckoning.  And all of this came at great cost for which I am ever grateful.

And you know what? 

Sometimes when someone says things like, “Our challenge is almost over, let’s have a toast”, there is a distinct plummeting sound in the region of my heart.  It’s followed by a sinking feeling and a deep sigh.  Because the payback for saving my own life, for finding strength where there was dependence and steadfastness where there was weakness - is that I am disabled in celebratory mode.

For years I have avoided my co-op’s annual picnics and my neighbor’s festive barbecues for the simple fact that the pivotal activity is imbibing.  The tone is less of celebration as it is a safe container in which to get snockered. Having spent time on both sides of this fence, let me assure you who’ve never watched- there is not much about drunken people that’s amusing unless you are one of them.

What I miss is the grown-up, sophisticated glass of a good red wine (and I’ll admit a fondness for Pacific Northwest micro-brews), taken at the advent or conclusion of a significant event, in the genuine spirit of celebration.  It’s tempting at these times to remember there are books by people who are alcoholics who regained their ability to drink socially and occasionally without a catastrophic relapse.  There are probably also books by those who tried and failed, only my guess is that they are incoherent and publishers won’t touch them.  So I don’t risk it.

Oh how I’d love to hoist a pint or sip a glass with you all.  Please accept instead my heartfelt blessings and gratitude as I toast you with my morning's kale and parsley juice.  Perhaps I’ll spin around in my chair to share that giddy sense of communion we call “getting tipsy”.