I went to AA last week after a couple months away. It was a secular meeting, which means it’s a group that’s obsessed with God like He’s jilted lover. AA is built on the idea of finding strength in a Higher Power to overcome addiction, and I’ve always struggled with it, because I am thus far missing the desire to believe in “the universe” or “the sense that there must be something more”. My view has always been “It’s not for me to know” because humans aren’t that bright. Instead I found strength in community.
I thought about sharing that, but not right away. In AA meetings, extroverts jump in early, then those of us with anxiety disorders find the strength to share late. Over the last 10 minutes, one of the extroverts was desperate to share a second time (in meetings it’s called double-dipping), but the chair let the shy and awkward folks share first, two of which were very emotional, which you can tell in AA meetings by the murmurs of “glad you’re here” when they finish up. I demurred, since there were folks who seemed to need it more than I did that day. Physically this meant that my heart rate sped up to like 130 as I was getting ready to raise my hand, then drifted back down as the time to share passed.
Then the Double Dipper got his time to shine. He turned on his truth-teller voice and explained for at least seven minutes about how the conditions for intelligent life on earth are impossibly complex, a celestial body with water the perfect distance from a radioactive sun, etc., etc., and that is undeniable proof of a higher power. He cut into the time for passing out chips, and I left and skipped the hugs. I don’t know how long he continued. I was exasperated.
Why’d that bug me so much? I do get bored by AA meeting performers, people who are “gonna give you some truth” because while they were using, they’ve “seen shit you can’t even imagine”, but I try to engage anyway because maybe that affirmation that their experience is unique will help them stay sober. In this case, maybe it was the message, that secular spirituality for dipshits, but I’ve sat through versions of that 35 times at meetings. Why couldn’t I handle a 36th? Is it only because he didn’t seem to be helping even himself?
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Yesterday a piece in Slate argued that Naltrexone is effective and under-prescribed, which, ok, but a couple things bothered me.
First, the piece didn’t acknowledge the alcoholic mindset. If you’re unfamiliar with addiction, you’d think sobriety is but a willing prescriber away, taking the actions of the alcoholic out of the equation.
My experience started before I went to rehab. When I was still blacking out multiple times per week, a psychologist prescribed it to me, along with Escitalopram for my anxiety-fueled depression. Rather than take it, I’d put pills in ziploc bags and ball them into hiking socks, because I truly believed that I would start taking them someday, when I was ready. My wife had the house searched while I was in rehab and found them. She thought maybe I was saving them to kill myself, not something you can do with those two drugs, but not unreasonable just the same.
Then Naltrexone was prescribed at rehab, and I took it, once. It made me flu-like, achy, queasy, unable to concentrate or function at all. I didn’t tell anyone about this reaction, and instead began hiding the Naltrexone under my tongue to say aah for the night nurse before tossing it into the bushes on my way out the clinic. The Escitalopram worked fine. I never used the Propranolol.
But what bothered me most about the Slate piece was this quote:
That focus on sobriety is part of the core philosophy of Alcoholics Anonymous, which eschews medication and views recovery as an “all or nothing” proposition, where one drink can cancel out years of sobriety.
My brother, 36 years sober, tells me it was true 25 years ago. I’ve never seen AA shun someone for a slip or taking an SSRI. Maybe I’ve been lucky. But I wanted to fight back for the good name of AA, even when the meetings drive me nuts sometimes.
I have gay male friends about my age who feel something’s lost in gay culture when there’s no oppression to push back against. This is a very old-head view, this idea that things were actually better in the Reagan-Thatcher years because identity could be more transgressive. But I wonder if I’m feeling something similar about the anodyne “alcohol use disorder (AUD)“, missing the use of “alcoholic” as someone without hope, to be avoided. Maybe that sense of shame is part of staying sober. It’s definitely part of my past, even if it’s not hidden anymore.
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Sunday, ,y son and I watched “Robot Dreams”. It’s a dialogue-free film about a very lonely Dog (named Dog), his brief and happy friendship with Robot, and how their paths diverge through a shit-ton of bad luck, especially for Robot.
At the start of the film, it’s 1984 and Dog watches TV, lives off of microwaved “Macaroni & Cheese Dinner: Macaroni & Cheese” and plays Pong against himself. He orders Robot, they roller-dance together in Central Park to Earth, Wind & Fire’s “September”, and the tangible joy of their friendship is what adds meaning to the doldrums of their lives apart.
My son, 6, asked about an hour in how much longer it would run (the 100-minute film could have stood from 15 minutes of trimming in the middle), but ended up loving it as well, hoping I’d find him a T-shirt, and a Robot stuffie. We added “September” to his playlist.
On Sunday after I dropped my son off at his mom’s, I plopped down on the couch and saw my blurry shadow reflected back in my empty TV. I got up and microwaved a Whole Foods meal for one (Chicken Tikki Masala), then played “Hades” on the Switch. I get my Robot back on Thursday.
You can’t have highs without lows.
Meetings used to drive me nuts many times. Still do in the occasional trips I make today. The advice given to me by those I trusted was “listen for the one message you needed to hear and discard the rest” worked well. I discovered that just the act of sitting there through my discomfort was often the lesson.
I understand. Hate the old time preachers and despise the double-dippers. STFU. 🤫