The Longest Day

“I like to see the glass as half full, hopefully of jack daniels.”

― Darynda Jones, First Grave on the Right

Sitting in my therapist’s office, I watched as she donned a deliberate countenance.

“I want you to go one day without drinking, and to write about it.”
“Why do you want me to write about it?”
“I think you’ll find the experience interesting.”
“I don’t think I’m going to do that.”
“Why not?”
“Every time I do that, I get bored.”

She stared at me silently.

“You really want me to quit drinking, don’t you.”
“Yes; I really do.”
“Why?”
“Because I want you to be able to experience quality time with your family—time that isn’t impaired by an alcohol fog.”

And with that exchange, thus began the internal argument that every suspected addict is subjected to—well not every addict.  Only the thoughtful ones.  Can I quit?  Why should I try?  Maybe I would feel better.  What difference does it make?  Maybe I would perform better at work.  Maybe my family life would be healthier.  Maybe I would be healthier.

For better or worse, the angel on my right shoulder was more persistent than was the imp on my left and I reluctantly yielded, deciding the following Saturday would make an ideal target.  I could indulge my normal Friday night drinking habit with my friend Fran, and spend Saturday and part of Sunday recovering and documenting the experience.  And with that, the decision was made—that is, of course, until life got in the way.

Friday night, Fran derailed my planned Saturday abstinence:

“I have the weekend to myself.  How about a couple of beers at Spinners tomorrow afternoon?”

I thought to myself: “I can lay-off the booze on Sunday.”

“Sure.” I replied.

The next day, I sat at the table across from Fran as we made small-talk, speaking of nothing really, but enjoying the camaraderie that can only be found in a 20-year friendship.  We drank.  Saturday came and went, my weekend drinking habit galvanized.

Sunday I checked my e-mail, and found a note from my friend Tom:

“They worked my ass off Friday and Saturday.  I need a break.  Meet me at Third Base?”

I thought to myself: “I can lay-off the booze tomorrow.”

The two of us at a high-top, I listened as Tom told war stories about how his team underestimated the scope of the current project.  How they were hopelessly behind.  Whether he would be fired with the rest of the team.  We drank.  Like Saturday, Sunday evening found me at my bar, drink in hand.

Monday morning I woke up late, and the list of chores I was tasked with performing had begun to back up.  The previous four weeks of Heidi’s absence and the continual presence of my sister-in-law, who had an antipathy for housework resulted in an emotional tipping point that left me emotionally ragged.  The pool needed attention because of the algae bloom from not cleaning it thoroughly enough.  The laundry hamper was full again.  The pets needed attention.  The dishes were piled high in the sink—again.  The counters were stained.  I was lonely, I was tired, and I simply didn’t want to deal with life.

I took care of the most pressing chores, put on some old jeans and a t-shirt, and headed out the door to check my business e-mail and request a PTO day.  The short, four-mile commute seemed an eternity as I considered my list of chores.  Compounding the fatigue was the stress of asking for time off at the last minute once again.  The mental agitation swamped my prior commitment to not drinking that day and the notion was completely absent from my mind.

Upon arrival at my office I logged in, checked my e-mail for emergencies, and attempted to call my manager, Aaron, who was in the office but MIA.  I left voicemail and immediately received a text message from him.

“In a meeting.  I’ll call you later.”

Undeterred, I crafted an announcement to the team regarding my planned absence, and included my status from the week before.  I filled out a PTO request, put it on Aaron’s desk, and paused to chat with our Sales Engineer, John.

“You’re lookin’ a little ragged there buddy.  What’s with the get-up?”
“I’m taking the day off.  Chores.”
“What are you doin’ here, then?”
“Checking for emergencies.”
“Is Heidi back?”
“Nope.”
“How long has she been gone, now?”  A pall of concern overtook his face.
“A month.”
“Jesus!“
“Yeah.”
“You doin’ OK man?”
“I’m fine.  Just a lot of shit to take care of.  I gotta go.  See you tomorrow; let’s have lunch.”
“Take it easy.”

A few minutes later, at home, I realized I’d had no coffee.  I retrieved a cup from the cupboard, inserted a coffee pouch into the machine, and began the brew.  Surveying the mountain of dishes, I decided to procrastinate long enough to have at least one serving of rocket fuel before embarking on what seemed like a rather ambitious journey.

My mind gently nudged me: “No drinking today.”

Ah; yes.  No excuses.  No reason to put it off.  I recalled my therapist’s demeanor as I left my last appointment.  She wouldn’t say it, but she appeared put out.  I had sensed a general annoyance, and as is typical when someone is annoyed with me, it weighed on me, taking its toll in the form of my current commitment to eschew alcohol.

I contemplated the last few times I chose not to drink to demonstrate the absence of addiction.  I shook my head and sighed.

Finishing my coffee, I headed out the door to tend to the pool, trying to focus on matters at hand.  For the next three hours I skimmed, scrubbed, washed, swept, and wiped everything in sight.  Nothing was spared the wrath of cleanliness.  Even the oven-top was returned to near mint condition.  I was a white tornado, and it felt good.  A sort of purging—a metaphor for the detoxification I could feel my body undergoing as it swept away the remnants of the previous 48 hours of alcohol consumption.

And then the mid-day hunger announced itself, and with it, another bout of loneliness.  I headed out to my car and drove aimlessly through mid-town Pflugerville, no lunch destination in mind.  Spontaneously pulling into the parking lot of a barren strip center, I read the familiar banner that served as a temporary sign over a store front: Nevertheless  Community Church.  It vexed me as it always does.  The meaningless name with the $10 dollar word.  I stuffed the onslaught of judgment.

I reluctantly walked to the Chinese restaurant door and opened it to the greeting of the hostess, who sat me at the booth that hosted countless lunches with Heidi.  I ordered and tried to embrace the solitude, actively combatting the oppressive loneliness and boredom.  Eating silently, I contemplated the approaching evening with a sense of dread.  I imagined hours of time passing slowly with nothing and no one to fill the void.

I paid the check and left, driving straight home with no detours.  No sports bars.  No sushi bars.  No bars of any kind.

And then I began what would become the evening’s activities.  Relentlessly, I went from my e-mail, to Facebook, to YouTube, to Netflix.  Again and again, killing minute after minute, hour after hour, occasionally opening Word, hoping to write, as inspiration evaded me.

At about 5:00 I broke the cycle long enough to feed the pets, and afterward I looked around the kitchen and into the breakfast nook, and then glanced at the den.  Nothing.  The space that had so often welcomed small intimate groups and large parties, now a social vacuum, devoid of human interaction.  A sense of desperation overtook me.  Picking up the phone, I dialed John, from work.

As is typical, his voice was cheery.

“What are you doing man?”
“Oh just thinking about Happy Hour.  Interested?”
“I don’t think I can do it tonight.  You know, Janine’s expecting me.”

His reply underscored the loneliness hanging on like a Gila Monster gnawing his prey.

“Oh; sure.  Maybe later this week.”
“Yeah.  Thursday or something.”
“Catch ya later.”
“See ya.”

A little relieved that circumstance didn’t permit me to fracture my commitment, I set the phone down and returned to occupying my mind with Internet distractions.  Settling on the movie Oblivion, I put on some leftover marinara and frozen meatballs, and dropped some pasta.

Finishing my dinner, I paused the film and checked the time: 8:30.  I began shushing the  demons that typically dog me at this time of night, but now without anesthetic.

Voices that suggest I’m a fraud, that my pathetic life is worthless, and that I don’t matter to anyone.  Reminders of moments when I was a jack ass to someone I loved, and those other moments when I was on the receiving end of the ass’s hoof.

I restarted the cycle of e-mail, Facebook, and YouTube again, attempting to distract myself from the accusations, which were predictably followed once again by the biting loneliness and the dull ache of boredom.

I returned to Oblivion.  After the film was done I went back to YouTube and began watching stand-up comedy.  An hour later I checked the time: 11:30.

I prepared for bed, turned on the copy of I Am Legend in the DVD player, and closed my eyes, expecting to fall asleep within a few minutes as I typically do.  No dice.  At the end of the movie, I looked at the clock on my cell phone: 1:30.

Insomnia.

I was reminded that, before my current drinking habit, I suffered horrible bouts that would leave me sometimes as much as two days without sleep and, typically, only about three or four hours most other nights.  It was a problem that dogged me as far back as I could remember, and which was a major source of frustration to my father, who demanded a bed-time; a platform for children being neither seen nor heard.

I got out of bed and downed a couple ounces of NyQuil, replayed the movie, and closed my eyes again.  At about three quarters through, I checked the time again: 3:00.  “Sweet Jesus!”  The thought clanged across the transom of my mind.  Another 30 minutes and I finally felt myself drifting off.

I awakened to the soft blue glow of the light from the monitor.  Rubbing my eyes, I reached for my cell phone: 5:00.  Stubbornly, I rolled over and closed my eyes, determined to sleep.  I transitioned into another half hour of intense REM sleep, but when I awakened again, I surrendered and began to prep for work.

Arriving at the office earlier than usual I took a moment to assess how I was feeling physically.  My sense was, marginally better than I typically do, but almost imperceptibly so.  I could tell I wasn’t dehydrated, and the familiar heaviness in my chest I typically feel for most of the morning had long since abated.

I thought about my experience the night before, and while my memory was clearer than it typically is, it didn’t seem to matter that much, which is significant, it seems to me.

As I ponder the notion of sobriety I am left with more questions than answers.  As much as I want it to matter, it doesn’t really.  I want it to matter because we are told that sobriety is better than drunkenness—and while a habit of true drunkenness makes for a very sloppy life, dulling the pain of life’s knife edge seems useful.

Many, including my therapist, say that the answers we seek in life come from within ourselves, but so do the questions we ask.  And for some of us the questions of self-doubt and reminders of self-failure drive us to self-medication.  Late in my adult life I discovered that alcohol, among other things, temporarily mutes the questions and doubts—almost.  Perhaps there are alternatives.

And so I ask in earnest: what would those be?

My imagination fails me.

Guy-o