Dr. Williams picked up her tablet from the desk and sat in the mustard yellow corduroy love seat across from Diego. Her face took on a different color when the tablet screen lit and she looked at him.
“Before we continue where we left off 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.
“Yes.”
“Well, I remember what it feels like, being drunk, feeling buzzed, forgetting problems for a bit, talking to women, being with friends, feeling like the funniest guy in the room, but then I think about the hangovers or smell it on someone’s breath and it sours my stomach. 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.”
She wrote with a stylus on her pad.
“Lies require a lot of work, self delusion, it’s a high maintenance hobby. New ones sprout out of necessity to keep the current ones afloat, then I need to adapt them, prune them, 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, always trying to come out on top.”
“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 a novel, a movie, and I was the main character, delusional.” 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 antagonists 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 appeared in daydreams. Memories of their perceived insults sparked anger and I’d engineer rebuttals for next time we crossed, but those prepared arguments never panned out. Eventually I’d tell someone the original disagreement, mostly gossip, usually to a close friend or my ex-spouse. 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 sorry state.”
“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, all 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. Did 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 problems I needed to solve, 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.
“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, me being small and playing a position for small people is believable.”
“Trust based on lies?”
“You asked what it’s like living like this, being an alcoholic. This is it, a vocation to delusion. This behavior was normal to me. I was uncomfortable in my own skin, angry at reality, doing or saying anything to adjust my perspective, to soothe my discomfort, and drinking was the only thing I could hide behind. I hated myself.”
“This impacted your marriage,” she added.
“I was a terrible husband, always jealous.”
“Always?”
“I know, don’t use absolutes, but I can’t remember a time I wasn’t jealous. My wife was a free spirit and I took it as a threat to my relationship, not our relationship, just my fantasy of what a marriage should be which was akin to having a hostage. No one should live like that, under constant surveillance. It’s like I never learned how to be in a relationship, to be secure and trust, just worried about my needs, my selfishness and self serving plots.”
“Let’s put the self flagellation aside for a minute- “
“- It’s ok, I’ve done a lot of work. I’ve learned to accept all of those flaws, every defect of character, forgive myself and others, making amends, eccetera. I got my 9 year chip a few months ago.”
“Congratulations!” She smiled. “Are you and your ex wife on good terms?”
“The best. I’m a regular at all their family events and I’ve got an awesome relationship with my kids.”
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. The truth was his family’s poverty was nothing more than working class americana. The Ivy League school’s admission officer called him to ask a few questions about his application, yet 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 911 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. The truth felt good.
“So it’s not just drinking that’s the problem”
“Drinking was the answer to feeling like shit. 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?’
“The real problem is the delusion that I alone can fix my problems, my short comings and my insecurities. The idea of a power greater than myself was stupid. For someone like me, I believed had to find the answer, take action and fix myself. I couldn’t be a pussy and not do anything. I couldn’t just say, ‘God, I can’t handle all this financial stress and insecurities about this woman I’m dating, can you please take them from me so I can do your will and by doing so, letting go of control and accepting things the way they are. Feeling better came as a result of letting go.”
“So what about now? Do you still harbor resentments.” She kept writing.
He looked down at his feet. His eyes watered and he remembered a young woman he was in love with and how he hurt her. His character flaw shone through her pain. He remembered the plans he’d made with her and the numerous times he’d broken those promises. He’d grown comfortable behaving this way because he’d conquered alcoholism and felt entitled to behavior that suited him, disregarded other’s time, expectations, and hope. He recited a list to Dr Williams of the people he’d hurt within the last five years with this behavior.
“Even your students?” She displayed a disdainful look on her face.
“Yes”
“What do you plan on doing about this?”
“Start with one person. It’s gonna take the rest of my life, but this is a big one. That behavior, flaking on people, is just like lying, and probably worse since flaking is action and not just words. I can’t live like that.”
“Good for you,” she said as she continued writing. He smiled remembering a dear friend who’d use that phrase to poke fun.
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 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 the 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.
