I have already written about the fact that I am a full-fledged, morning drinker alcoholic, which in many ways makes my life quite a bit more colorful than it would be otherwise. Although I usually feel guilty about most everything, I cannot seem to muster up any guilt about this. Alcoholism, like multiple sclerosis or dyslexia, is an illness that you may or may not be afflicted with. There really is no moral question involved. This said, getting help is entirely up to you. I have gotten help on various occasions but I have never really been able to maintain sobriety for very long. During my last treatment in 2008, I was feeling quite confident in my future, cavalier really. I was taking the reins. Taking charge. My life was up to me. Change yourself and change the world I guess.
My chosen place was a sixty patient outfit that placed a lot of hope into the idea that through sports, the suffering alcoholic could rid himself of this tiresome ailment. I liked that idea because I wanted to lose weight and I wasn’t too keen on the idea of sitting around talking endlessly about why we hurt and why we drink. Plus I love hiking and the Pyrenees are so beautiful. Every Wednesday, ten new people were admitted and ten others were released back into the real, cold world. After a frightening ride in a night train, a two-hour layover in Toulouse at 5AM and a kind search of my luggage for mouthwash or gin, it was nearly noon and I was officially in treatment. Anyone who has spent any time in France knows, at noon, you eat, no matter what. I was escorted into a sort of cafeteria, welcomed by hoots and cheers. I am six feet tall. There is never an adequate place to hide. Ever. Men seems more driven/obligated to seek treatment for alcoholism than women. I suppose they lose their driver’s license or their job or they get into trouble with the law. Women are sly. I am exceptionally sly. I was feeling quite ill and not too sly at all at that moment.
I was seated with nine other people, an odd miss-mash of humanity but linked by one common-denominator. We were all definitely alcoholics, huge and insignificant. All and nothing I guess. In six weeks, I lost seven kilos, started smoking again and had sex with two different men. Although there was not very much one-on-one analysis, I did have a psychiatrist that I met with once a week. I have to say, he was a snide fucker…sporting the appropriate goatee and glasses over which he could look down on you, a sick insect in a petri-dish. We got along quite well really. His wife was the staff psychologist and since I am bilingual, they decided to boost my ego through the translation of some sort of diagnostic questionnaire. It always comes in handy, a bilingual alcoholic.
Since this blog does have a disclaimer, which eliminates any hope of ever being Freshly Pressed or of ever being famous on Word Press, and since I like to write about sex…I think I will cleverly insert a small dose of sexuality into my detoxification. I was in treatment for the first time at the nubile age of 17, and for adolescents, the medical staff is all over this issue. Of sexuality I mean. They know that even if you were not an alcoholic, at that age, that is almost all you are thinking about anyways. Plus I suppose they don’t want to send home any pregnant, sober girls. Back then I fell in love twice but remained a virgin. I had some quite intense under-quilt petting episodes during video viewing and also in a van bringing us towards the city and AA meetings but my honor demeured intact. I have to say that when you are used to stuffing yourself with alcohol, you are definitely vulnerable. You are empty and quite open to the idea of being filled. By most anything. Anyone really. You are free-falling and you will grasp any projectile…
To be continued. (When I sober up. )