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Submitted to the Writing Contest: Demanding Satisfaction
Username: Niyari
Title: Alcoholic's Anonymous
Word Count: 3,818
Prompt: Use the quote: "Experience is a hard teacher; she gives the test first and the lessons afterwards." Use the following words somewhere in your story: Admission, Total, Casual, Cartoon. Use the following song any way you see fit: Bon Jovi "It's My Life".
Requirements:
You have until the 22nd of October. Your Min. word count is 3150.
-----
Alcoholics Anonymous
They were always telling me that the first step towards beating an addiction was admitting you had a problem. I couldn’t tell you exactly who “they” were, it changed frequently between family members and friends, but it was what they were always telling me.
So this is me. Admitting I have a problem.
“Hi. My name is Jason Rudy, and I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Jason,” came the monotone reply.
I stood before a group of bedraggled, haunted looking people, some of them still a little high off of their last drinking binge, some of them twitching, watching the clock, watching the door, watching the pot of coffee at the back drip slowly. I didn’t know what to say. What do you tell a bunch of strangers at an AA meeting? What do you reveal about yourself that they don’t already know?
“I had my first drink when I was ten. I stole a sip from my dad’s beer bottle. He’d fallen asleep watching football. I remember I didn’t like the taste at first.” That was an understatement. That first drink had been more like a gulp, and it hadn’t sat well with my stomach. Fifteen minutes after swallowing that bitter swig of alcohol, the beer--and my peanut butter sandwich lunch--had come splashing into the toilet. I’d promised my ten year old self that I’d never touch the stuff a gain.
Yeah. Right.
“As I got older, I found myself liking the taste more and more. And eventually it didn’t matter what the s**t tasted like, just so long as it was booze.”
The haunted, hungry eyes turned towards me. More people paying attention, relating their story to mine. This couldn’t be helping any of us. Didn’t my story telling just make them want to drink more? Rehashing that first time, that first euphoric night of drunken partying, didn’t that make the addiction harder to handle? I couldn’t speak for the rest of them, but my hands were twitching, tapping, fidgeting with the podium.
[********, I need a drink.
“I’m only here because…well…because I finally saw that I had a problem. My family and friends have been begging me to try this for months…years. I finally did.” I sighed, and laughed a little under my breath. “So, here’s to hoping this works,” I said quietly, sarcastically, saluting the crowd with my right hand.
As I was taking my seat, some other nobody stood up at the podium, said his piece, and another one after that, and another one after that. I didn’t pay much attention. I didn’t care to hear how they felt, didn’t want to see how much pain they were in. Their story wasn’t that different from mine. I didn’t need to hear it. I didn’t need to see myself in every single one of them.
Time passed slowly. People took the spot at the head of the room and spoke. People drank cups of coffee, one after the other, from little Styrofoam Dixie cups. People hung their heads as though they were asleep, necks bowed with shame.
I busied myself by looking around the room. There weren’t many decorations, just rows and rows of benches, a few dozen crosses adorning the walls, and a morbid-looking statue of Christ on the Cross, hanging high above the podium.
It’s really ******** up, I thought to myself, that they hold these meetings in a church. Don’t we already feel enough like s**t?
When the meeting had ended the head of the group, Robert I think his name was, stood before us all and spoke.
“It was wonderful to meet you all today. Each story you have to tell may seem similar, you are all dealing with the same addiction, but each one of you has a different journey. Your life will lead you down paths others will never even come close to crossing, and some of us are closer together than we think. This is the first step in a new direction, a change for the better. You have all experienced hard things in life. You have been down dark paths. Experience is a hard teacher. She gives the test first, and the lessons afterwards. Each and every one of you knows this.”
His eyes scanned the room. He had dark eyes, but they were full of hope, and caring.
“Until next time: for me, for those around you, and most of all for yourselves, please, stay sober.”
-----
I walked out of the double doors of the church, and found myself face to face with my sister, Andy. Her arms were crossed over her chest, bunching her dark jacket up around the elbows and shoulders, contorting it open at the bottom to reveal a shiny purple shirt. Her black slacks were trembling as she tapped her right foot at a furious beat.
I smiled at her, a little weakly. “How’s it going little sis?”
“Been better,” she replied shortly, jerking her head to get her blond hair out of her eyes. “How was the meeting?”
“Boring as hell,” I replied.
“Good. You deserve to go through a little hell.”
That stung.
“Mom and dad asked me to pick you up. They want you to stay with them for a little while. God only knows why.” Without stopping to see if I would follow, she turned around and stomped towards her car, her heels making small clicking sounds on the wet pavement. I realized for the first time that it was raining. That meant Andy had been standing out in the cold, wet weather to make sure I would go home, that I couldn’t slip away after the meeting was over.
It was somehow both sweet, and a little frustrating. Of everyone from my small group of family, Andy was the angriest with me and my choices. To make a point of being where I couldn’t ignore her, and sacrificing her own comfort by standing in the rain, was a very sweet gesture for her to make. At the same time, though, I didn’t need to be babysat.
Then again, maybe you do. Being on your own hasn’t done much for your sobriety thus far.
I firmly told my subconscious to shut the hell up, and got in the car.
Thankfully, as soon as she turned the ignition on, Andy also cranked up the heater. I had started shivering.
“Cold in there?” She asked, keeping her tone casual.
“Cold in here,” I replied, pointing to my chest. I was starting to hit withdrawals. I knew it, and she knew it. I rubbed my arms with my palms and tried to wrap myself deeper into my jacket.
“Do you want to go to a hospital instead?” Andy asked. I knew she didn’t say it for my benefit; she just didn’t want me getting sick at our parent’s place. I’d probably start puking up my intestines in a few hours.
“No.” I replied sternly but quietly.
Andy didn’t say anything. The remainder of the drive was carried out in silence.
-----
By the time we arrived I had broken out into a sweat, despite feeling as though I was standing in the middle of a freezer, and was shaking violently. My hair was plastered to my head, greasy and wet, and my clothes felt as though they were soaked. Andy knocked rapidly, the sound very quiet on the thick wood of the door. I couldn’t believe anyone would be able to hear it.
When the front door opened, my mother’s aged, wrinkled face appeared. Her expression rapidly fell from one of welcome, to one of absolute shock.
“Jason…” she said breathlessly. “You’re here.”
“Hey, ma,” I replied, teeth chattering. “Good to see you.”
Andy shot me am angry look.
Mom simply stood in the doorway, staring at me. Every time she’d seen me over the last few years, I’d either been drunk, or just getting off my binge. I had been addicted then just as much as I was addicted now, but I hadn’t looked so damn sick. It was probably frightening.
She came to her senses quickly, that mother instinct kicking in. Despite my ********, she’d been one kick a** mom.
“Come inside, both of you. Let’s get you out of the cold.” She put one arm around my body, but didn’t directly touch me as she ushered both Andy and I inside. I couldn’t tell if that was because she didn’t want to touch my sweat-soaked body, or if she just didn’t want to touch me.
I swallowed past a lump in my throat at the thought.
I was hurried down the hall, straight into the downstairs bathroom. Mom settled me onto the toilet while she bustled around me, gathering clean towels, bottles of soap, a spare comb, and other hygiene-like items from various cupboards and shelves. She thrust all of them at me at once and said quietly, “You remember how to turn the shower on and off, I imagine?”
I nodded weakly. I’d lived in this house my entire life. I remembered everything, even down to which stairs creaked when they were stepped on.
“Very well. I’ll…leave you to it,” she nearly rushed out of the room, closing the door behind her. From the hallway I heard soft whimpers, and my sister’s voice, murmuring in a low, soothing tone.
I think I’d made my mother cry.
I pushed the thought aside. I’d probably done worse over the years. At least now I was making an attempt to get better.
At the moment, however, every bone in my body, every muscle, every layer of tissue and sinew and ligament wanted nothing more than to stay seated on that toilet. Or to lie down on the cool linoleum floor. I didn’t want to stand up, move to the shower stall, peel my sticky clothing from my skin, and wash. I didn’t want to move at all. But when it was all said and done, things would probably be better if I did. Maybe I’d even feel better.
I somehow managed to dump the load of towels and soap in my hands onto the counter of the sink, turn the water on as hot as I could stand, get myself naked and into the stall, and bathe. The heat felt good on my skin, warmed me, the steam alone erasing the stickiness of my sweat from my skin. But I was still shaking as though I was cold, and the walls surrounding me seemed to shift and sway, as though the water pouring from the shower head had somehow filled the entire room, drowning me.
I wish I was drowning…I thought angrily.
I snapped off the shower, stepped shakily from the stall, and proceeded to dry myself. I didn’t have any clothes to put on, except the wet ones on the floor, so I wrapped a towel firmly around my waist, draped another around my shoulders, and stepped forth from the steamy bathroom.
Mom came rushing down the hall almost as soon as I had opened the door.
“Clothes! I had forgotten all about it,” she said when she saw me, abruptly turning on her heel and heading the other direction.
“Don’t trouble yourself, ma, I can find something.” I said, my words slurring together.
“Hush, Jason,” she said quietly, more of a reflexive statement than out of any real desire to have me shut up…I hoped. She crooked a finger at me, beckoning me up the stairs, and went flying into her bedroom. I took the stairs slowly. The walls were still spinning and I didn’t particularly fancy falling head first down the staircase. By the time I’d reached the top she had gathered up an old pair of what looked like my dad’s sweats and a ratty, hole-filled t-shirt. I accepted them gratefully, and headed to the guest room at her request.
As soon as I was changed, I lay down on the bed and fell straight to sleep.
-----
I felt as though I was in a world of ice. Each breath I took was painful, a pull of air that filled my lungs with tiny lacerations, shredding my insides. I could feel myself shaking, could hear myself calling out for something, anything, to help ease the pain. I saw shadows on the wall, and lights on the ceiling, all of them glaring at me, laughing at me, mocking me. The shadows held bottles, broken bottles that gushed with booze. The room was flooded with it, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t taste, couldn’t even smell the sweet amber liquids. The glass shards of the smashed bottles floated around me, swirling inside the alcohol, cutting into my skin.
It felt like I was being torn into pieces, both inside and out.
There were things crawling over my skin. Insects, arachnids, tiny things with too many legs and pinchers that were tearing small chunks of my skin off of my arms, my legs, my torso. The amber-colored liquid was turning to a hazy reddish-brown. I still couldn’t taste the alcohol, but I could taste the blood.
I wish I was drowning…
You have been down dark paths….
Jason…
Cold in there…
I wish I was drowning….I wish I was dying…I wish…
You deserve to go through a little hell…
Jason…
********, I need a drink….
Experience is a hard teacher…
Jason…
Experience is a hard teacher.
“Jason!”
Someone was calling my name. It was probably those demons, the dark shadows on the wall, trying to taunt me. ******** them. I just wanted to die in peace. Couldn’t they give me a little peace?
“Jason! Wake up!”
Leave me alone. Leave me alone to die. I just want to be alone.
“Jazz, please wake up!”
Jazz? Only my sister called me Jazz. Well, ******** her too. She didn’t give a s**t about me. She was one of the shadows. She was one of the demons.
“God damn it! We have to get him to a hospital.”
“Oh, Jason…my baby. My poor baby. Shouldn’t we call someone?”
“Who would we call, mother? Nobody wants to deal with him any more! He’s a total failure, a complete nobody. Everyone else ditched him a long time ago.”
“I don’t know! Someone! Anyone! Someone from his group! Does he have a sponsor? A friend?”
“How the hell should I know?! Can we please just get him in the car? Or, better yet, call an ambulance!”
“Yes, yes, an ambulance.”
My demons were trying to get me to a hospital? That didn’t make any sense.
I could taste more blood on my tongue. It was slithering down my throat now. I coughed it up, and then started to retch. Vomit mixed with the blood. I tried to wipe it off of my tongue, sticking my fingers into my mouth and ripping it off with my nails. I only succeeded in choking myself, making myself puke even more violently. I gripped my shoulders, touched the insects on my skin, and tried to tear them away. It stung.
“Jason, sweetie, its okay! They’re coming. The ambulance is coming for you and they’re going to take you to the hospital. It’ll all be okay.”
Demon’s whispered in my ear. They were getting to me. They were trying to make me believe that help was coming, that it would be over soon. I started to cry.
“Just kill me. Get it over with. Please. Just let me die.”
“No, Jason. You’re not going to die. Nobody is going to hurt you.”
“Please. Kill me…kill me.”
The shadows and the lights on the ceiling began to flash red and blue. In the distance there was a screeching sound, a wailing. It sounded like the demons, laughing, cheering. I was going to hell.
Finally.
-----
This has to be against some unwritten rule of the addict.
I was sitting in a bar. Damn it, I was sitting in a bar waiting for somebody. I had to be ******** mental.
“Admission to the psych ward, party of one,” I muttered under my breath.
Somebody was playing Elvis on the jukebox in back. I wanted to strangle whoever it was. My temper had been flaring more and more frequently as the days went by. Chalk it up to recovery. My mood shifted with the breeze.
I was cradling a drink in my hands. It had been damn hard not to order a shot of Cuervo, or a Gin and Tonic. Or just a plain old beer. Instead, I held a glass of cranberry juice between my palms, and I nursed it, trying to make my mind believe that it was the good stuff it wanted, instead of the good stuff my body needed.
It had been three weeks. Twenty one days. Five hundred and four hours, since I had woken up in the hospital, completely and totally sober. My mother had been on one side of my hospital bed, my sister on the other. As soon as I’d opened my eyes, the tears started, the shouts, the accusations. And silently, in the corner, the leader of the AA meetings had stood and watched and waited.
Robert.
They’d found his number on a plain business card in my back pocket, and had called him when the withdrawals had thrown me into a fit of violent hallucinations. I’d vomited, and bitten my tongue and lips so hard I’d bled. I’d torn myself apart with my bare hands…and I was still recovering. Chunks of skin were still scabbing over on my arms and neck and face. I’d used my fingernails to dig imaginary insects out of my skin. Apparently it was common for alcoholics like me. When I’d started begging to die, my mother called an ambulance, and my sister called Robert.
And when I’d convinced my sister to take our mother home, we’d talked. He became my sponsor.
A God damned a*****e of a sponsor, I thought bitterly.
“Jason,” came the quiet voice from behind. I turned to him.
“Did we have to do this here?” I asked in a pained voice, not even bothering with a greeting.
“Hello to you too. And yes. We did.” He sat down and ordered what I had, a straight, plain old cup of cranberry juice. The bartender looked at both of us like we were on drugs. “You got here first, you sat here alone, and you didn’t order a drink. Doesn’t that tell you something?”
“That I’m crazy?” I responded sarcastically
“That you’re healing,” Robert corrected me, smiling as he held up his glass. “Cheers.”
We both took a swig of the juice. I set my glass down harder than I meant to. “What if I had ordered the alcohol?”
“What if you had?” Robert asked.
That stopped me. “I would have downed it. Fast.”
“And how would you have felt then?”
I looked away from him. “Like a failure.”
“I was counting on that when I told you to meet me here,” Robert said. “Right now, my good opinion of you matters more than that precious drink. I’m using that to my advantage.”
I wanted to protest. I wanted to say that I didn’t care what he thought about me. But I did. The man had seen me at my absolute worst. Puking, hallucinating, helpless in a hospital bed, inches from death. He’d consoled my family, helped them through the worst of my illness, and then agreed to help me tackle my problems with addiction. He’d done it all without knowing anything about me. He’d saved me.
I cared. I cared a whole ******** lot what he thought about me. I wasn’t going to relapse just before we were scheduled to meet. No ******** way.
“How long have you been sober, Robert?” I asked, my face still turned away from his.
“Exactly Three years, eight months, two weeks, and 6 days.” He responded automatically.
“Does it get any easier?”
“Not even for a second.”
I sighed, frustrated, and swallowed the rest of my cranberry juice. “That’s not what I wanted to hear.”
“I’m not about to lie to you.”
“I know.” I raised my glass to the bartender. He came over with the jug of cranberry juice, poured me another glass, and walked away, muttering about crazies and psychos.
“Tell me something,” I said suddenly. “Why did you do what you did?”
“Pardon?”
“Why did you come to my rescue? Three weeks ago, you saved me without ever even knowing me. Why?”
“Someone had to help.”
“But why you? You didn’t know me.”
“Did I have to? I give out those cards for a reason, you know. I admit, I was a little shocked to have gotten a call your first day, but I imagine that wasn’t exactly you’re doing.”
I snorted. “Not exactly.”
“See, Jason, life isn’t about doing things rationally. You have to do what you feel like.”
“I feel like having a ******** drink.”
“Then have a ******** drink.”
I stared at him.
“I don’t make your choices for you. Fall off the wagon, make that choice, move down that path. It doesn’t affect me either way, except maybe that I’ll have failed as a sponsor. For me, I want to help whoever I can in whatever way I can. I want to help others control their addiction. Life is so much more than throwing back beers and drowning yourself in booze.”
I stared at him some more. Why did things make so much more sense when he opened his mouth? How come life didn’t seem so complicated? Why couldn’t I just be more like him. When would I understand the facts of life that seemed to come to Robert so naturally? Who the ******** was playing that God damned Elvis song again?
“Excuse me a moment.” I said quietly, standing and making my way to the back of the bar. I fished a quarter from my pocket, and popped it into the jukebox.
“Hey, buddy, do you mind?” Asked a meaty guy standing by the pool table. His arm muscles were about as thick as my torso. He looked like a cartoon character, all muscle and tough-guy exterior, eyes bulging from his face.
“Yes, I mind,” I replied, running through the lists of songs and making my selection. “I mind very ******** much that someone is playing the same damn Elvis song, over, and over, and over again. Kind of Rock and Roll, my a**.”
I pushed a button, and the song changed. I turned around.
Robert was facing me, a grin stretching his features, and he held up his glass in salute, then downed it and asked for another.
I smiled back and returned to my seat beside him, while Bon Jovi sang over the speakers of the bar.
“It's my life. And it's now or never. I ain't gonna live forever. I just want to live while I'm alive. It's my life.”
End
 Niyari · Sun Oct 25, 2009 @ 06:12am · 0 Comments |
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