Dr. Williams picked up her tablet from the desk and sat in the mustard yellow corduroy love seat across from Miles. Her face took on a different color when her tablet screen lit and she looked at him.
“Before we continue where we left off last week I need to ask you something I should’ve asked a few weeks ago.”
“Sure”
“What does it feel like, to be alcoholic?”
“Serious?” He couldn’t tell if she was joking. “Well, I remember what it feels like, being drunk, feeling buzzed, forgetting problems for a bit, talking to women, being with friends, but then I think about the hangovers or smell it on someone’s breath, my stomach sours. It’s revolting. We covered this.”
“Yes, but what does it feel like? Not just to want it, but needing it and everything else, the emotions, anxiety, depression and so on.”
He looked out the window at thick glossy leaves of the magnolia tree outside her 2nd story window. “It’s exhausting. If I’m understanding you.”
“How so?”
“There’s a lot of lying involved. Every breath is a lie, a reflex. I’ve spent most of my life lying.”
“Do you still lie?”
“Yes, I’m human. It’s a hard habit to shake. A few small ones slip through from time to time but I’ve done a lot of work and it’s easier to spot them, keep them out of my mouth. Lies require a lot of work, high maintenance. New ones sprout out of necessity to keep the current ones afloat, then I adapt them, prune, adjusting, decorating old ones, or keeping tabs on new ones. It’s exhausting, but I never saw it that way. It was a challenge to keep them running, manipulating people and situations.”
“I take it you’ve lost a lot of friends.”
“No.” He paused, “Well yes, but I made enemies of those I couldn’t fool, villains for my story. I was the victim and I needed people on my side. I saw my life as story and I was the main character. Delusional, I know.” He grinned, shook his head realizing it was the first time in months since he’d shared this, admitting to himself and another human being the exact nature of his wrongs.
“These were people I couldn’t fool, they saw through my act, my tantrums. They became my deepest resentments. They rode the empty passenger seat of my car or appearing in daydreams. A memory of their slight sparked anger and I’d engineer rebuttals to their insults for next time I crossed them, but those prepared arguments never panned out as planned. Eventually I’d tell someone the original disagreement, mostly gossip, usually a close friend. I’d sprinkle half truths of context to make myself the righteous party, the wounded dog, manipulating them to frame the other as a foul irredeemable person who should reap what they sowed, always emphasizing my victimization.”
“How often would you do this?”
“Every day.”
“Every day?”
“Every day I was obsessed with being right. It was my goal to be the funniest and smartest person in the room. Nothing was ever my fault and I loved being the victim of my unfortunate circumstances, mostly self imposed. If I didn’t get my way I’d rage or fall into deep despair, sobbing to shitty music on drives with the volume cranked all the way.” Dr Williams scribbled on her pad. “Feeling sorry for myself was easy. I often froze from anxiety and fear of events that never came to pass or materialized as a result of impulsive behavior and emotional stupidity.”
“You mentioned imagined fights and arguments with people, preparing for confrontation. Any of those fantasies ever materialize?”
“Only If I forced the issue, trying to be right, trying to make a point, even while knowing the outcome would not be favorable. I risked jobs and relationships. I dwelled on issues, worried about what others thought of me. Hours and days wasted diagnosing mistakes made or perceived, finding blame, and arguing with myself. I was addicted to the drama, the anger and despair. I didn’t know any better”
“You’re an alcoholic.” The phrase slipped out under her breath, an understanding.
“You get it now?”
The picture was clear, more than anything she’d read or studied in college or saw dramatized on television shows as a subplot to a supporting character. She remembered the series “Shameless”. The shows writers provided honest depictions of this condition, spreading the symptoms across three characters; Frank, Lip (Phillip), and the bipolar Ian.
“What were some of the biggest Lies?”
“I played cornerback on the High School Football Team.”
“That makes sense, you’re short and small, probably quick and fast.”
“That’s why the lie fit so well. I was definitely quick. I played offensive and defensive line, sometimes outside linebacker.”
A look of disbelief covered her face. “But your so -“
“- small? Yeah, I know.”
“So why not just say the truth? It actually sounds interesting.”
“I used this one to establish trust, stating something believable.”
“Trust through a lie?”
“You asked what it’s like living like this, being an alcoholic. This is it, this was normal to me, being uncomfortable in my own skin, angry at reality, doing or saying anything to adjust my perspective, doing anything to soothe my discomfort. I hated myself.”
He spent the rest of the hour acknowledging lies he’d discussed with his sponsor. How he was raised in dire poverty and was accepted to an Ivy League university. His family’s poverty was nothing more than working class americana. An Ivy League school’s admission officer called him to ask a few questions about his application, he understood it to be an admission, it was just a phone call.
“That never happened?”
He shook his head and told her about joining the Marine Corp after college, becoming a pilot or combat infantry officer, but he declined citing disagreements with the war and 9-11 was in inside job. He confessed he was afraid of dying. He also told her about the group he joined to reinforce his Native American heritage, of which he had none, and admitted it was a cult. He laughed. She laughed.
“So it’s not just drinking that’s the problem”
“The drinking was the answer to feeling like shit. The real problem is the delusion that I alone can fix my problems, my short comings and my insecurities. A few beers made me feel normal for a moment, then the moment passed and I sought out more. I remember a bottle of premium vodka my neighbor gifted me for my birthday. It looked like expensive stuff. I took a shot while doing housework, then another, and another. The bottle was empty by the end of the evening and I went out to get a six pack of my favorite IPA. I had to keep riding the buzz. What’s a weekend without enjoying myself?”
At home he organized his garage, moving his sisters junk from one side to the other, blowing out cob-webs and sweeping the floor around the exercise equipment his ex-wife gifted him years prior. His phone screen lit and his headphones paused the music, his sponsee was calling. He ignored the call. The Dodgers game was set to start in half an hour and he knew this fat fuck would only kill the vibe by whining about his recent break-up. The call went to voicemail. He listened to the first 20 seconds the following day and called him back but there was no answer.