People who know me aren’t sure how to react to my newfound sobriety. They find ways to relate, diminishing their own drinking habits to demonstrate their power over the disease. Most really don’t have a problem the way that I have a problem, and I don’t judge them for their behavior.
Some of my friends are disappointed with me. I was a legend amongst lushes, a bastion of inebriation, a demigod of drunks. My raging alcoholism made them feel better about their own because hell, no matter how bad they had it, at least they weren’t “that guy”. Other friends, the quiet ones, those who love me best, are fucking thrilled. Nobody wanted to attend my funeral, and the way I get around, they might never know I died anyway. Sending a proof of life text is funny until you start to realize that they were serious.
The oldest friends have seen this all before, some have even sat by as I did my sweaty shakey itchy twitchy recovery shtick. Because I’m still counting days, people watch me closely, waiting for the inevitable relapse. As frustrating as it is to be so entirely untrusted, I really can’t blame them much. It’s only a matter of time before something throws me over, and I find a way to get tossed. I’m hoping that through sobriety meetings and some professional therapy, I’ll be better equipped with the coping mechanisms necessary to stick a landing on life-long sobriety. For now, I’m taking it one day at a time. At least I’m not single.
After a meeting the other day, some of the girls were discussing dating attempts now that they were sober. I’m horrified that the dick pic is very much a real thing and fairly commonplace. The last thing I’m going to send a girl I just met is a picture of my junk. The odds are already stacked against me. No need to confirm their suspicions. I sent an old boss a pic of a hotdog hanging out of my fly when he asked me for a dick pic. Working in a kitchen for most of my adult life, I wasn’t offended by his request, I was offended when he told me that I had to eat the hotdog.
The other thing that most men’s Tinder profiles have in common is that there are a whole lot of men posing with fish. One of the girls explained to me that dudes don’t take selfies. Any decent photo of a dude was probably taken by an ex-girlfriend, on vacation, when the dude looked clean and happy and had his hands full with the catch of the day. She told me that every guy had a picture of himself, posing with a fish. Assuming myself an exception to the rule, obviously, I scrolled through my pics. Sure enough, there was a photo of me posing with a fish.
I was in Alaska, sober, working as a cook at a processing plant. I looked happy, healthy, and fit. The Filipino pantry chef handed me a random salmon and told me that my girl would be excited to see that I’d caught a fish. Apparently, catching a fish is sexy in the Filipino culture. Even if I never had a profile on a dating website, I, too, had a photo of myself, posing with a fish. I also had a photo of an uneaten Hebrew National hotdog hanging out of my fly.
My partner and I have been together for a couple years and were good friends for fifteen years before that. Although I have sent her a photo of me and a fish, I would never bother her with my block and tackle. She knows me better than I know myself, (because she remembers everything I did while black out drunk,) and she did her best to love me as an unrepentant alcoholic. I didn’t make it easy. Sober, silly and slightly stupid, she loves me even more now, despite the fact that I am prone to singing Muppet songs when I’m working in the kitchen. She knows and loves me, but she doesn’t quite trust me.
She kisses me every time I come back from an errand. I’d like to think that she’s just so damn happy to see me now that I’m sober, but I think we both know that it’s a breath check. There’s a pack of Big Red chewing gum going stale in the glove box because her Pavlovian response to the smell of cinnamon is to check again for hints of underlying cheap corn whiskey. Because most of my errands are across the street to the grocery store that used to be my source, she’s wary. I don’t leave the house on long excursions yet. I don’t go anywhere unsupervised. Say what you want about her trust issues, but I know how manipulative my dependency is. I don’t trust myself.
We were over at her Nana’s place, helping with the posthumous cleanup. I don’t mind wandering around, moving boxes, reaching for top shelf items because they think I’m tall. I’m still deeply disoriented, and I have too much time in a day now that I’m not shit house by noon and passed out after dinner. I got nothing but time. So, when her uncle John starts rambling on about his old sign making business and boats he’s been on, and all the grandsons, I don’t mind. They tell me that he’s got early symptoms of dementia. I’m a good listener, lately.
Inevitably, Uncle John broaches the subject of my new sobriety. Although most of her family was spared the gruesome details of my dependency, the term “sobriety” still carries a significant stigma. He gives me a detailed account of his drinking habits. The fact that he can actually count the number of drinks he has in a week, without consulting a calculator, indicates that he really doesn’t have a problem like I do, but I’ll still listen. Like a defrocked priest I’ll absolve him out of habit. The room goes still and awkward after I tell him: “Well, gee, Uncle John, I only wish I could drink just one glass of red wine with dinner. My problem is that just one glass turns into two or three bottles pretty easy.” feeling slightly uncomfortable with my candor, Uncle John scrolled through his phone, looking for some common ground that we could agree on. Sliding his glasses down his nose, he smiled brightly, “Well here!” he offered me a glance at the screen, a photo of him standing thigh deep in a pristine mountain stream, holding his prized Steelhead.
“Ayup,” I said, feigning some authority on the subject, “That’s a really nice fish, Uncle John.”
Andrew Tomacelli 