So I’m in Argentina for my best friend’s wedding. I’ve known this girl for 19 years, and have been just as close with her family as with her; they are family, and they know how hard it’s been to get where I am.
Everything about getting here was a disaster. It was the usual airport obsticals; running late, missing mandatory papers for international travel, mistaking my seat number as my gate number, you all know the drill. The best part about the disasters was that I laughed them off! Pre-sobriety, I would have been reduced to a fit of tragic fury. This time, I marched forward with a confident “no problemo,” attitude.
A fellow alcoholic drove me to the airport and it was the best possible departure for my sobriety. We covered everything from downfalls to revival, inspiration, and Winston Churchill. When I got dropped off at the gate I was elated! Filled with love, and pure happiness radiating. You know that feeling? The one that no material possession can duplicate? That one.
The flight was hunky dory, too. I fell asleep for 9 hours, woke up, had a questionable airplane breakfast, and bam! We were landing in Buenos Aires. The air was warm, a car service with a man named Rocco was waiting at luggage claim, and with my broken Spanish and his enthusiasm we chit chatted all the way “home.” Although the driving was intense. I couldn’t tell if Rocco was a retired race car driver, or he just didn’t care if we died. Anyway, we got lost for an hour, and even that was a hoot. He started teaching me about Argentina, about the Provences, the President, and how much amazing steak I had to look forward to. I felt carefree and fearless for the first 24 hours.
Today things started to change. (Mom, Dad, don’t freak out.) There’s been lots of talk about the wedding, and rightfully so! That’s why I’m here! What scares me is that I’m started to feel like alcoholism is a punishment again, like I’m missing out on the fun. I’m already resentful of my disease. Why can’t I drink like a normal person…? I guess that’s the obsession of every alcoholic. It’s not that I want to be “that girl,” falling all over the dance floor; I just want to feel the weight of a filled wine glass in my hand. Is that weird? I can almost taste a cool crisp Pino.
I’ve been playing the tape in my head. It’s no secret from my mind that a) I can’t have access to an open bar and not blackout, and b) after just two drinks, all attention would be diverted to finding blow, killing the real reason of being present and happy for my best friend. A and B are as certain as death and taxes, yet my alcoholic Gollum inside wants to cover-up the facts.
Parts of my attitude areregressing and my defects are gaining steam, but slow enough for me to catch them. I’m feeling more insecure and a little less humble. However, just by saying these thoughts “outloud,” make me feel better. A good friend of mine said at a meeting last week, “it’s not that I’m going to pick up, but that I’m even thinking about it, just for 30 seconds, scares me.” That’s where I’m at. I don’t feel anywhere near to a drink, but the thought of these thoughts are still scary. Thanks for listening yo.
** Don’t mind the typos. This computer speaks Spanish.