by Amos Gunner
CHAPTER 14: BRENDA
Thanks for that introduction. My name’s Brenda, grateful recovering alcoholic. Thanks so much for letting me lead tonight. I haven’t been in the program as long as some of you, and it was nice of Greg to let me to share my experience anyway.
First, my clean time. I haven’t had a drink in seven years. But I’ve only been sober for a little over a year. It’s the difference between sobriety and simply not drinking that I mostly wanted to speak about tonight.
I don’t want to give you a drunkology. I think most of you know my stories already. And aren’t our stories pretty much the same? Once we get past the specifics? You know, we drank at first for the freedom, then for the pleasure, finally for every reason and for no reason. Isn’t this the path we all traveled in one way or another? We careened toward rock bottom and pulled some insane stunts along the way. Right? Does this not ring true for anyone here? So there’s no reason for me to recount my misadventures in depth. I’ll be quick.
I was raised to be a good Catholic girl. For a while, I was. When all the other girls wanted to be professional ballerinas or doctors or whatever, I aspired to be a nun. Seriously. I told people that. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” “A nun.” And no one gave me any reason why it couldn’t happen.
Then I hit my terrible teens. My world got jumbled. Or maybe I jumbled it myself. I’ve never been able to pinpoint the exact cause of my change. Hormones? I started to ask question, questions I thought had to do with my religion, but I realize now were about life. Anyway, no one gave me the answers I wanted, so I rebelled. Hardcore. Far beyond what’s expected from adolescents. Instead of simply telling my parents that I was having problems with Catholicism--you know, like a normal person would--I dropped the whole shebang. Really unwise and unnecessary decision since I was still close with my parents at that point. They always said I could tell them anything and I think they meant it, but when it came to Catholicism, I wasn’t so sure. That might’ve been the exception. So instead of speaking out, I acted out. By the way, my parents are still devout Catholics, and I’ve seen all the wonderful gifts it’s given them, so it’s not like I have anything against the Church. It’s just not for me.
Since being the nice girl didn’t make me happy, why wouldn’t the total opposite make me happy? So I went from a simple Catholic school girl to a neo-hippy of sorts. I used to shop at the mall, then thrift stores. My quiet, conservative clothes turned silly and psychedelic. I traded my cross necklace for hemp and beads. And of course, I dumped my old friends and made new ones. That was the biggest change.
This transformation took, like, a month, at the end of my junior year. I mean, I’d been asking questions for awhile, but I when I decided to change, bam. Done. My dad watched it happen and told me I was slipping away and he was right, but my transformation was so rapid he couldn’t do much to impede its progress.
That summer, the craziness began. I don’t want to get into all the stories, but the point is I sampled every drug that came my way. In the end, I preferred good old-fashion legal alcohol. Well, it wasn’t legal for me at the time, but you know what I mean. Also, I took a crash course in sex. I’d been kissed only once before that summer. By the end, I was basically living with this guy in lots of sin. And I decided I wasn’t going back to school.
Anyway, blah blah blah, glug glug glug. Different men, different situations, same shit. For years. We can skip this part. We all know what it’s like. Although I have to mention, I never really hit rock bottom. I just sort of found myself awfully low and ended up hanging out in the depths for a long time.
Then I met my husband, Adam. Met him in a bar, don’t you know? He was an adorable stranger sitting alone, so I tapped him on the shoulder and told him he could buy me a drink. We chatted and it was good, then he dropped the bomb. He was a cop. I nearly lost it. I was like, “You should arrest me, not buy me drinks.”
I don’t think he really got what I meant until this loser I was sort of seeing came in and saw Adam and me together and went nuts. It didn’t help that he was whacked out on pills. I forget what kind. Come to think of it, I forget his name. Anyway, he got so worked up, he passed out before any punches were thrown. The bartender had to call an ambulance. So Adam got a good sense of what my world was like at the time. And my reality began to make sense to me, too. On my left was great opportunity. Passed out on the ground was my sort of boyfriend. Which would you choose?
Of course, I didn’t quit drinking. Somehow, I tricked Adam into seeing me again and it became a steady thing. We really hit it off, but I just had to drink before every date--to build my confidence, to make myself more interesting. Sound familiar? Once, I passed out before the date could start. I had a dozen messages waiting for me when I woke up.
But Adam earned a lot of credit by never giving up on me and never looking down on me. Meanwhile, I constantly berated myself. When things really started to happen between us, he sat me down and suggested detox. No, he begged me to go. He said he needed to know what it was like to kiss me without tasting alcohol. By then I was ready for a change and I checked myself in.
I still remember my last drink, by the way. An Absolute Lemon Drop. So tasty. They’re pretty good when they come up, too.
Adam was wonderful. He surrounded me with flowers. Before they’d wilt, he’d run out and replace them. That was when I fell in love with flowers. They seemed to represent life or Adam’s love. I don’t know. Something good.
I got introduced to the program and went after sobriety with a vengeance. I even gave up smoking. I know, I know, I picked up that habit again, but my last drink has remained my last drink. The first step was easy. Of course, with time, it’s the one that presents a challenge. You sort of forget who you really are, which I think is what happened to me.
For the second step, I chose painting as my higher power. Why not? I knew a woman whose higher power was Waffle House. I always liked art but I hadn’t painted since the sixth grade, so after I was released, I started taking lessons. After Adam and I got married, I talked him into converting the garage in our new house into a makeshift studio for me.
So there. From drinking to not drinking. I thought my world was in order. After a few months, things were so good I stopped working the program. Next, ta-da, I became miserable. Life threw me curveballs and I didn’t have the tools to handle them. Not alcohol and not sobriety.
First, a doctor broke it to me I couldn't have kids. That was hard at first, but I accepted it as a just punishment for my sordid past. At least I learned why I never got pregnant after some of the choices I made.
Then Adam fell into a mild depression because of his job. He had transferred to a more demanding position and I don’t think he could handle it. His heart was too big. He could never detach himself like he should’ve. We both found out the hard way the police force might not’ve been the right place for someone as sweet and sensitive as Adam.
From the outside, my life contained all the idyllic elements an adult could want. Money was good. I had made a few normal friends. I even got a job in a flower shop, the first normal job I had since, like, ever.
But yeah, I was a basket case. I didn’t pick up and I wasn’t tempted, but here’s the point: I still did some of the same crazy things I did when I drank. It’s like, take alcohol from the asshole and you still have the asshole.
This is the hard part. Excuse me. I’m sorry. But it’s my point and I want to share this story with you all.
About two years ago, at a police fundraiser Adam and I were attending, this guy couldn’t keep his eyes off me. Real ugly. Bad skin, yellow teeth, big in an out-of-shape way. I mean, some might call him barrel-chested, which would be accurate if a barrel had man boobs. Even his name was gross. Zeke.
But I was intrigued, which is difficult to explain. Men at the flower shop or at grocery stores or wherever would occasionally send me signals, but the more attractive they were, the less I was interested. But this ugly beast undressing me with his
eyes, he was right up my perverse alley. Later on, this guy and I were alone for fewer than ninety seconds. That’s all the time he needed to talk me into exchanging numbers. Amazing I caved in so fast. Well, he had prepared some good lines. “Life’s short but I’m not.” Okay. It wasn’t what he said but how he said it. What a salesman. Sold his own bullshit. I bought. By the way, Adam was clueless.
At first, I thought our exchange was the only excitement I wanted. He called my cell a few days later and I didn’t answer. Didn’t even listen to his message.
Like I said, Adam was in a sort of depression and--I don’t know how to put this--it affected his body. Long story short, I had been dissatisfied for quite a while. And you know, it’s not so much sleeping with someone that’s exciting. It’s their wanting to sleep with you, dying to sleep with you. That’s the real thrill. Everything after that is an anticlimax. Even the climax, ha ha. I think we both anticipated getting over the stumbling block over time. I think. We never sat down for a heart-to-heart.
Well, Adam’s problem didn’t pass. Once in a blue moon, he would make an effort, but his attempts came to nothing and drove me crazier than I already was. Then one day, after Adam had fallen flat the night before, I couldn’t take it anymore. I called Zeke and asked if he was still interested. He was over right away. Why our place? Of course, I now know I wanted to get caught, giving me the chance to express to Adam how dissatisfied I was with some parts of my marriage. You know, instead of simply telling him without an affair? Like I should have? Like a normal person would have? Insane.
Zeke was sort of perfect, though. The idea of actually enjoying an affair made me sick, and Zeke made it hard to enjoy anything we did, especially since his personality was as ugly as his appearance. I sure wasn’t going to fall in love with him and leave Adam. On his part, I don’t think he was going to start a Fatal Attraction obsession. So it worked out. It was easy to rationalize. I told myself it was the least deceitful affair ever.
I put a month between his visits. That’s how long it took for my frustration and irritation to grow stronger than my guilt. Guilt because I knew my rationalization was bullshit. Part of us always knows when we’re lying to ourselves, right? Like sex without emotion isn’t cheating? Rationalization is so irrational.
I received all these clues to break it off, too. I got the biggest clue when my husband transferred to narcotics and got a new partner. Zeke. The coincidence was too big to be a mere accident. I deserve an Academy Award for how cool and composed I remained at the dinner table when Adam told me. That was it. I promised myself the affair was over. But you know, a moment of clarity is only that, only a moment.
And then--
Excuse me. I’m sorry.
This next part was cruel of me and far worse than anything I did when I drank. But it emphasizes my point, my reason for giving this lead. You know how the active addict is so self-centered they think the whole world exists for them? I was in the exact same mindset.
Adam was having a problem at work. Truth told, he was suspended. He was in danger of moping around the house and spiraling into a deep depression, so I set him up with a temp job with my dad’s construction company, just to keep his mind and body active. Adam was so excited by the chance to escape his problems that he came close to being the husband he hadn’t been in a long time. He came close, but not close enough.
The next day, like my pattern indicated, I called Zeke. Now if I was cruel, Zeke was.... Let me put it this way. I was a saint compared to him. Me. Wicked me. I’d say he’s the closest thing to pure evil I’ve ever met in my life. He was almost unreal, like a cartoon character. I can say without hesitation that Zeke destroyed my life more than any other person had ever tried to. More than I destroyed my own life, and trust me, I gave it the old college try. God, I am so far from forgiving him, I’m not sure it’ll ever happen.
Anyway, before Zeke had arrived, he had called Adam behind my back and made dinner plans for that night. He must’ve called from our driveway. He knocked and simultaneously the phone rang and Adam told me Zeke was coming over for dinner. Zeke watched me with a devilish grin. Literally. Devilish.
I can’t believe I went through with it. I kicked him out of the house right after, and he left saying, “See you later,” and laughing. Oh my God. I can’t believe that happened. I showered for an hour after he left and I was still filthy.
But at the time, I felt the ultimate humiliation was that Adam had asked me to make the steaks I was saving for dinner with my parents. No way was I going to sacrifice the steaks for Zeke. I drove to the grocery store and bought some generic spaghetti and a can of cheap sauce. I picked out underripe vegetables to toss the blandest salad ever.
It was all I could do really. The worse thing was, a dinner was bound to happen. They were partners after all, and at least one invite was inevitable. Still, the inevitable can sometimes jump on you without warning. I don’t know. Maybe the dinner plans had less to do with social propriety and more to do with Zeke being an asshole. I don’t know. My life didn’t make any sense. I swear, it was like I was drunk.
I was flipping out and probably shouldn’t have been driving. I foresaw Zeke dropping a huge hint and Adam catching on and the evening ending in fights, one between Adam and Zeke, then one with Adam and me. But no, I realized. Zeke wouldn’t blow our secret. I calmed a little. I was all he could get without paying someone and he knew it. Still, until Zeke made his goodbyes, I was on pins and needles and nails and knives.
The lousy meal disappointed Adam, embarrassed him. Sick, but I was glad he was disappointed in me. He wanted to impress Zeke, who didn’t deserve to be impressed and I didn’t deserve to be shown off for anything.
The conversation was mellow, mocking my panic. Zeke was polite and quiet. Not himself at all. He complimented the food. I didn’t know he had it in him to compliment anything. Adam seemed to be in a good mood. I mean, he tried, although after Zeke left he fell back into his funk. The job at the construction site wasn’t the miracle cure we’d been counting on.
The instant Zeke set down his fork, I collected the dishes and hid in the kitchen. I didn’t even hear Zeke leave.
I confronted the fact that I had trashed my life worse than if I’d never quit drinking. I’m sure the night from the outside must’ve played like a classic sitcom, but living it was a tragedy. Look, the craziest thing I ever did during my drunken days was beat up someone, and I was probably justified. Promising to end the affair and not ending it, and then watching my innocent Adam break bread with his partner and wife, both of whom he entrusted with his blind faith. The affair with Zeke topped my pummeling by far on the immoral ladder.
That’s it. I said never again and I meant it. I was ready to open a dialogue with Adam and patch our relationship. It would be difficult, but easier than living through another night like that again.
In bed, I tried. I don’t know happened but I couldn’t do it, couldn’t speak up. I thought I needed time to prepare my thoughts. And then the worst thing that ever happened in my entire life came two days later. I lost Adam.
I was never more tempted to pick up again. Why shouldn’t I? Here’s my point: there hadn’t been much difference between drinking and not drinking. Yeah, there were periods of greatness. The last day with Adam was particularly good. Not even a full day. Fourteen hours, give or take, some of which we wasted on sleep. It haunts me to think what we could’ve had if I had stayed in the program.
But I didn’t pick up. My new solitude and insomnia gave me plenty of time to think. After the initial period of mourning--I mean, it’s not as if you ever complete the mourning. But after a while, all signs suggested my life would soon land in the shithouse unless I changed direction, so I hit a meeting. I walked into a room full of people who didn’t judge me, who understood me, who had messed up the best parts of their life too. It was what I needed. It was a miracle.
Meetings became a constant part of my life. I got a sponsor, the greatest sponsor anyone cou
ld have, and now that I’ve reached the twelfth step, I’m able to share what I’ve learned with others: sobriety versus simply not drinking. And it’s been the hardest lesson I’ve ever had to learn. But if I can help people through my example, maybe even save someone, it’ll make what I suffered worth it.
So stick with the program. It’s not enough to quit drinking. Alcohol took up such a big part of your life that when you cut it out, you need to fill that hole. Sometimes I think Adam would still be alive if I had worked the program, if I had been sober. I have to live with that, and I have to live with that without getting sloshed. Life on life’s terms. It’s tough, but it’s real.
Anyway, Brenda. Gratefully recovering alcoholic. Thanks for letting me share.
