Hi, my name is Jeff, and I’m an alcoholic.
Today marks 20 years of clean and sober.
At 37, that’s more than half my life. With all that’s happened between then and now, it seems long ago that I stopped drinking, yet the “road to recovery” always feels recent because there are daily prompts and traps that get my mind thinking in dangerous ways. Alcoholism covered over deeper psychological issues, and “not drinking” and “recovery” were two different things. Today, it’s not hard not to drink, but my mind often starts thinking in ways it did when I was drinking. Those moments remind me I’m a recovering, not recovered, alcoholic.
20 years ago, I left Kansas (too many prompts and traps) and went to California to “find myself.” It’s now clear that I wasn’t “finding” a “self” I’d lost, or “discovering” one I never knew; I was creating new identities for myself—writer, DJ, Californian, grad student, later husband, father, Shakespeare scholar, Harvard professor—on top of, in close relationship with, the identity of “alcoholic” that feels sometimes very far away, sometimes very close. The good news is that growing up with terrible self-esteem can be harnessed to become a skeptical academic very happy to constantly question whether your own—your society’s—ideas are any good.
I’ve always struggled with “alcoholic” as an identity. Before I started any recovery programs, I was just spiraling out of control. Gaining the identity of “alcoholic” gave my spiraling direction, not in a good way. Once labeled, I started doing what alcoholics do, as I understood them: drinking heavily, publicly, destructively, sometimes violently, much worse than when spiraling randomly. I still wonder if acquiring the identity “alcoholic” did more harm than good.
Acquiring that identity sent me (thinking now as a literary critic) into the “plot” of the alcoholic, first the descent into hell, then the overcoming of adversity. It had a happy ending, but was there another way? Is it possible to conceive of “alcoholism” as a disease without importing “alcoholic” as an identity? If not, is the concept is worth the identity?
That’s why I’ve had a rocky relationship with Alcoholics Anonymous. Many I saw in AA just changed what they were addicted to from alcohol and drugs to AA meetings. That’s not necessarily a bad thing: better to be addicted to AA than alcohol and drugs. But that lifestyle never appealed to me. I’ve tried to avoid having “alcoholic” be the centerpiece of my identity. It’s a part of who I am and my history—personal, mental, and physiological history—and the moment I forget that, I’m in trouble. But I’ve tried to position “alcoholic” as only a part, not even a big part, of who I am and what I do on a daily basis.
But that’s resulted in situations where I view alcoholism as a much bigger part of my life than those around me do. Because I rarely reveal my alcoholism to new friends and colleagues and almost never discuss it in any depth with anyone other than my spouse, people don’t usually (know to) extend me any consideration or accommodation. That’s how I’ve designed things, but I surprise myself when I get quietly resentful if someone offers me a beer. It’s absurd of me, but this occurs once or twice per year. It bothers me, even though it shouldn’t, that alcohol is a part of everyday American society, a part I’m prohibited from partaking in, that “normalcy” and I are necessarily separate (at least in this regard).
Recently, I’ve been thinking about how to identify myself to others as an alcoholic in offhanded comments and been doing more of this, but it’s an art I’ve not yet mastered, probably won’t ever. Those disclosures still do nothing to ease the awkwardness of the omnipresence of alcohol in America. The “Need More Wine” memes on social media. “It’s Beer Thirty and Wine O’Clock” signs at friends’ houses. “I don’t trust someone who doesn’t drink,” and other idiotic comments. My profession is filled with wine receptions and cocktail hours. How often do I talk about how difficult they are to navigate? Never. How often are they difficult? Every time.
And I’ve been thinking about what and how to tell my children. I worry I might create the same self-fulfilling prophecy I experienced when labeled an “alcoholic.” Would I be providing “alcoholic” to them as a possible identity, perhaps increasing the likelihood of their assuming and fulfilling that identity by making them aware of its existence and their genetic predisposition to it? Obviously, it’s important to inform them of their family health history, but it’s a complex psychological game that I haven’t quite figured out yet.
I’m predisposed to self-critique, so I’m uncomfortable celebrating myself, but today that’s what I feel like doing. 20 years ago I was in a very bad place, heading for worse, but with the love and support of family, friends, and counselors, I was able to stop drinking, start the road to recovery, and turn tragedy to triumph—which now involves a family of my own; fantastic relationships with my extended family; old friends, who were there before, during, and after the shitty parts, and new ones who have no idea; and a career I absolutely love (yet reserve the right to complain about daily).
The awkward mental and social games I play, unbeknownst to others, will be back tomorrow, but any alcoholic’s anniversary is an opportunity for joy. At 5 years, I went skydiving (at the cheapest place I could find because I was a broke college student, which isn’t how one should select skydiving services). This time around, I’m taking my kids to a water park to watch them go down the slides, smiling ear to ear.
Jeff Wilson is a Shakespeare scholar who teaches in the Writing Program at Harvard University. He lives in Lowell, MA with his wife and two kids. On Twitter @DrJeffreyWilson.
—
