Читать книгу Emotional Sobriety II - Группа авторов - Страница 15

January 1975

Anybody who grabs the program and makes it past the end of the physical hassles—the shock when your liver finally realizes it's got a new shot at life and starts functioning normally again, when your digestive system starts to see food again, real food, and not that strange chemical that kept putting it out of whack—anybody who makes it that far enters what many repaired drunks (“recovered” sounds so medical) call the AA honeymoon. It's that wonderful period, lasting from ninety days on up, when life is so damn fine, when everything works so … so right, somehow, that it's hard to believe you're just returning to normal and not becoming some kind of superman.

The honeymoon strikes people differently, depending on individual traits, depth of addiction, withdrawal problems, and the like. Some become ebullient, bubbling with smiles and joy; others walk around in a seemingly permanent state of euphoria or shock; still others can't believe the feeling and seem stunned. (A good friend who caught the stick the program offers told me, “Do you know, really know, what it's like to suddenly be able to tie your shoes with both eyes open?”)

I went insane. Quite starkly mad. Perhaps not clinically (although everybody in the program seems to know all about psychological terms and what they really mean), but if outward actions are any indication, I was ready for the men in white coats and the quiet, screened rooms.

For one thing, I couldn't say no—a clear indication of insanity. At one point, when I'd been dry about six weeks, I had accepted five full-time job offers and was seriously considering the sixth when my wife ran screaming from the house—babbling something about my blank eyes and wide smile—to get my sponsor and save me from myself. I firmly believed I could actually do all five jobs at the same time. Worse, I accepted invitations to four parties—all on the same night. And we made all four, too, though it took my wife nine Al-Anon meetings before she mastered the twitching. She still, though I've been dry over a year now, automatically says no to everything.

On top of my inability to say no, or perhaps coupled with it, was the seemingly automatic compulsion to buy things. Anything. If I wanted it, I'd buy it, completely on impulse. I now own and will probably own forever (unless my wife sneaks things out of the house) a six-foot-high, spine-leafed Dracaena marginata, probably the ugliest plant in the world. The saleslady called it a “decorator's delight.” I've since named it Igor, because I think it might be carnivorous. There are fewer flies in the house since I bought it a year ago, and we haven't seen a turtle I couldn't refuse since the day it got out of its box. To go with the plant, I got an amazing deal on a Great Dane named Caesar (who I know is carnivorous and who sleeps wherever he wants, usually on my bed). In the yard is a genuine 1951 GMC pickup that doesn't run and never will run unless I can find an engine. I bought it anyhow, at a garage sale. “Don't worry, darling,” I remember saying. “Think, just think of how much money I was spending on booze. Besides, we can always use it as a planter if I can't find an engine.” I also have two lamps (genuine 1934 modern chrome), a folding typing table designed by a maniac (it folds all the time), six new coffeepots (no, I don't know why), a stool made from an old milk can and a tractor seat, a case of canned smoked oysters, and an antique sausage-stuffer with—as nearly as I can figure it—eleven parts missing. There is more—you can buy a lot of stuff in three months or so. But the rest is worth mentioning only as (I wince at the word) junk you trip over.

Thank the Higher Power, the malady doesn't seem to be permanent. I have since quit buying things—unless I need them or at least think I need them. But there is apparently one lasting effect—if not on the drunk, then on the Al-Anon.

The other day, I was in a pet store, and they'd just gotten in some boa constrictors—not too big, perhaps six feet or so. At any rate, I was standing at the glass case looking at them the way you stand and look at snakes, not thinking of buying them or anything, just looking, enjoying the intricate patterns and colors, when I was interrupted by a stifled cry. I turned to see my wife standing in back of me, eyes wide in horror, the twitch definitely pronounced, while her head shook back and forth slowly. “No,” she was whispering in terror, “not snakes. Please, not snakes. Anything but snakes.”

And that just goes to show, it sometimes takes an Al-Anon longer to get straightened out than it does the alcoholic himself. Hell, I wasn't even thinking of buying a boa constrictor.

Not at the price they were asking.

G.P.

Elbert, Colorado