A Prayer for Undying

The other day I was trying to explain addiction to a friend. He put forth the idea that the fulfillment of one’s desires would make one less inclined to use one’s drug of choice. I disagreed. I said that because addiction is closer to the addict than anything else, nothing can come between it and us: no lover, no job, no pastime, no geography. It fits right up next to our skin like a co-joined twin that saps our life force yet without whom we will not survive. No amount of love or suffering could make me stop drinking, would make me give up that comforting spirit, that familiar companion. I stopped because I was going to lose it anyway, because I was going to die.

Here’s how it went for me (age 14 to 28):

Party. Party. Party. Party. WooHOO! I am a cool party girl! Everyone wants to be me. Party over here. Party over there. Party. Party. Party. Party. Ten years pass. Bad things start happening. Try to stop drinking. Fail. Try again. Fail. Try again. Fail. Try again. Fail. Try again. Fail. Quit drinking for good. Fail. This time I really mean it. Fail. Try again. Fail. Give up. Really bad things start happening. Make a couple of trips to the emergency ward. Resolve to never drink again. Get hammered and spend a night in the drunk tank. Quit drinking for good. Get evicted from apartment. Put badass boyfriend in jail. Recognize impending doom. Resolve to never, ever drink again. Get drunk with badass boyfriend the day he’s released. Become resigned to early demise. Get drunk and pass out. Wonder if maybe there’s another option besides untimely and possibly gruesome death. Go to a meeting. Listen. Go to another one. Hear other people tell stories just like mine. Keep going, everyday. Watch in awed disbelief as people celebrate months and years without a drink. Keep going. Make friends. When the desire to drink hits hard, be in a meeting with people who care about me instead of a bar with people who don’t care about anything. A year passes. Then another. Many, many good things happen. Fourteen years later, I still haven’t had a drink. Life is sublimely lovely and wild and heart-breaking and fun...and I hardly ever think about drinking at all, anymore (only once a week or so).

I didn’t stop drinking because my life sucked or because I was going nowhere or because I couldn’t meet a decent (read: “non-sociopathic”) guy. I didn’t stop because I couldn’t do any of the things I wanted to do if I kept drinking. I didn’t stop because I was never going to have a career, or a family, or a real home. All of those things were true, were readily apparent to me. The only reason I stopped was because I didn’t want to die. Well, that's not quite true: dying seemed okay, actually. It seemed inevitable. I couldn't feel anything anymore besides excruciating emotional pain, and I’d sort of resigned myself to death, was prepared to welcome it. I stopped drinking because I thought I might give not dying a try. Just to see, you know?

Note to a friend: People love you. The world would be a little less interesting and a little less annoying without you in it. There's plenty of time to die. Try life. Go to a meeting, or go to treatment again, and do it as if your life depends on it. I’m guessing that this time around, it does.

Practice saying this prayer: I need help. I can't do this alone. I want to live.