/////\/We know who we are.
\\\\/\ and we're not ashamed. |||||||!
When I woke up I heard something that sounded like crackling ice. What the hell? Then I remembered. Or rather, bits and pieces floated through an alcoholic haze. My stomach boiled as I fished the remains of a foil-wrapped pizza from under the covers. Eeyew! Greasy tomato sauce and stringy white cheese was not a good look for a Laura Ashley sheet.
Screwing up my courage, I looked down at the tee and sweat-pants I couldn’t remember changing to. They would have scared me if I hadn’t been staggering to the bathroom to throw up. “My head is killing me,” people say. I was this far from death’s door. . .and couldn’t wait.
So? Some of you are thinking. Hangover’s nothing. 8-year-olds are drinking before school. If they go. But I was disgusted with myself. Okay, scared. Head doesn’t kill me, I thought, I will. And I meant it.
Flash forward a month. Same scene sans foil, cheese and tomato sauce. Only crust was in and
around my mouth. This time I vomited blood.
Flash forward a week. Formerly periodic, my drinking had escalated to watching for the clock to click to 5:00. Drink before 5:00, you’re an alcoholic. After 5:00, you’re partying.
“Sheila? We’re having a party. Come on over.”
“No thanks. Gonna make it an early night.”
Translation: I want to get quickly and quietly bombed. Friends don’t need to know.
I don’t.
Flash to the following Monday. “Hello?” [Voice is weak and husky.] “Won’t be there today. Think it’s flu.”
Tuesday, still have it.
Wednesday, go in and leave early.
Thursday and Friday, stick out.
“Please come to my office, Sheila.”
What did I do now?
“....work is slipping....were my best...anything you want to tell..hmmmm. ..going to have to do better, or...”
At the liquor store, I buy two bottles instead of one.
Can’t smell vodka, you know.
Flash to. . .I can’t put you through this.
Everyone who has ever seen an AA scene on TV knows the scenario. But this was me. Ms. Perfect. Okay, not, but a summa cum graduate, many-times-promoted worker, loyal and trusted friend. . .yata-ya–. . .
Have to hit bottom, they say.
They’re right.
Flash back to six years, seven months and 43 days ago.
“Hello. My name is Phyllis, and I’m an alcoholic.”
Still eat pizza in bed. Just don’t end up with cheese in my hair.
Powerful and a timely reminder. Life is so much clearer and sweeter without alcohol - well a red glass of wine can be excluded - with food.
Best wishes
Miller
What a surrel write! Your courage for stepping into the AA is to be commended for.
Alcoholism is not an addiction, it is a disease. It can be cured!
Good luck to you!
A wonder piece which should go into the AA newsletter or some sort of magazine if they have one.
Love you lots,
Sandie Angel a.k.a. May Lu :o)
Reviewed by Kate Clifford
8/29/2003
I have written in this area a few times now. You have touched the experience of alcoholism in a very unique way. I have been touched by this experience more then once by alcholics in my life. There is so much we learn through these experiences and it shows through this write.
Phyllis, thank you for the intimate look inside what surely must be a painful place to touch. You might enjoy reading my daughter's post on my site, a short story called "Daddy's Little Girl." It deals with a similar topic. In my article section, you might also enjoy the essay on Kathleen West, an expert on addictions.
Many of our lives are affected by various addictions, whether our own or those of loved ones. Many of us have felt the rip and tear these addictions cause. Writing can be therapy as well as a way of reaching out to others who know and understand. A brave piece.
Reviewed by Susan Cook-Jahme
7/4/2003
My Dear Friend, I read this slowly, sadly and know what this illness can do to one. My mother has this challenge - she didn't ask for it, neither did her family. Only thing is...she's not brave enough to say yet "I'm an alcoholic" She still tells me that the glass she takes with her to bed at night is "water" & not wine! Peace.
Determined to confront the hazy memories of his troubled youth, Oliver Matthews, a retired detective and confirmed bachelor, returns to the picturesque town of Henley-on-Thames for the first time in years.
The bulk of the collection is eight short stories that are set in yesteryear. The compilation is filled out with four entertaining fantasy pieces and three poems.
Determined to confront the hazy memories of his troubled youth, Oliver Matthews, a retired detective and confirmed bachelor, returns to the picturesque town of Henley-on-Thames for the first time in years.
