No Beer Birthday

What I wanted was a facility that could hook me up with a counselor and someone who writes prescriptions.  Preferably in the same building.  I wanted antidepressants and someone to talk to about drinking too much. 

The website of the first place I tried said it specialized in addiction counseling.  What I learned looking around the dark stale lobby – a spatial embodiment of a hangover – was that their specialty, more precisely, was court-mandated addiction counseling. 

In the consultation closet, the head recovering alcoholic explained that if I wanted his center’s help I’d have to sign a sobriety pledge and come to group therapy sessions 5 nights a week. He’d been sober 20 years, got his counseling certificate online and could teach me how to have it all, too.  What did I think?  Was I ready?

I tried to keep the lump in my throat and horror off my face. 

The next place I went was much more beautiful.  There was a fountain outside and a white noise machine in the waiting area and all the fixings to make hot tea.  The advice I got here, while delivered in a room full of natural light, was even scarier. 

A nurse practitioner told me that if I was really serious about getting help I should check myself in to a rehab facility.  When I was done with that, I’d need to go to AA meetings everyday at least once a day.  She said I could have some Zoloft, too, if I thought I needed it. 

Less out of concern for my well-being and more to spite her and the sock-n-sandaled man before her, that was the day I quit.  It wasn’t all spite.  More a suicide of spite, fear, and obduracy.  I stomped out like a little kid.  I can do it myself!  With some Zoloft, please.      

I’m not saying anyone else should do this or even that it works but I didn’t go to rehab or AA.  I went to see movies.  Sometimes two a day.  I talked to a counselor every couple of weeks.  I am steady on medicine that helps anxiety and depression. 

I am clumsy with the title Alcoholic because I don’t think I deserve it.  Like, because my life wasn’t messed up enough, I don’t get to claim not drinking as a victory.  Because I have stopped, it must not have been that hard.  When I tell my friends this story some say, “You didn’t drink that much.”

It’s the same reason I’m shy to say I am depressed.  Other people have it worse.  My problem is I’m lazy.  I want attention.  I need more resolve. 

Maybe.  Maybe.

But also fuck it.  Whatever the shorthand for it is, I felt out of control.  I don't now.  It’s been a year and I’m really proud.