Hello, My Name Is Marisol And I Am an Everythingaholic
A few months ago, I was part of my very first intervention. Dennis, one of my two homosexual life partners, actually requested that we all intervene because his life was careening dangerously towards complete destruction. He sent us an e-mail that said, "This is it. I mean it. Intervene."
The Dennis, 1999. Photo by g8s.
The Dennis, 1999. Photo by g8s.
We all felt a little bit strange about having said intervention because none of us are what you might call "sober" people. To illustrate how ill equipped we were (and are) at hosting a meeting to tell someone that they need to stop imbibing, you can just ask where we had this intervention.
We had it at a bar.
Not only did we have it at a bar, we had it at a bar where the bartender knows of all of us and halfway through the emotional gathering, he sent over a round of shots.
My mind goes to this day often because Dennis is no longer with us. And by that, I do not mean that he is dead, I mean that he has left the city for a while to get his life in order. He is out in the "real world." He is in the Midwest dealing with some old demons and I talk to him on the phone frequently. I absolutely have to believe that he will work things out sooner or later because I love him.
I want to believe that someday soon, I will be on a leather banquette tippling on a dirty martini and laughing with my dear old friend, Dennis. But, I am realizing that this event is a reality that may be resigned to the past in order for us to have a future. And that makes me sad in ways I can't quite explain.
In his memoir, Dry, Augusten Burroughs writes about going into rehab and the misconceptions he had about what that experience would be like. Initially, it did not occur to him that rehab is a path towards sobriety. The night before he is to fly out to his future rehab home, Burroughs joins his old drinking buddy to toast the future,
"Now I'm thinking rehab could turn out to be great. I'll dry out for thirty days and it'll be like going to a spa. When I come home, I'll be able to drink more like a normal person drinks."
This sentiment is something that I have since spent time considering. How to drink like a normal person drinks.
I love to drink.
I love to be with a group of my friends drinking and being silly. I love to toast and to pour, to shake and to shoot. I love it all. But, alcohol is most certainly a drug. And, it is a drug that simply does not belong in certain people's lives. Or bodies. Because, for whatever reason, certain people cannot have alcohol as an element in their functionally productive life.
Sure, it is common to have a time in one's life when drinking and drugging is virtually inconsequential. And, as we mature, we find a way to moderate our imbibing so that it is entertaining without being destructive. But, not for everyone. This is something I am not sure I am ready to face.
Because, I suppose, to a certain degree, I am also an addict. And an enabler. But, mostly, I am unreservedly sentimental for a past where the inebriants flowed freely and the consequences were reconcilable.
Dennis, Marisol, Betsey and Patrick. Halloween, 2004 @ the intervention bar.