A good read.

My names ……. and I’m an alcoholic.
If I knew how life would turn out sober, I don’t think I’d have believed it.
During my drinking, life wasn’t one of debauchery or prisons.
It wasn’t one of divorce or bankruptcy.
It was one of, what we like to call in AA, a functional drinking career.
For I worked. I never stopped.
I met my partner. We had children.
I paid NI Stamps.
I filled forms in honestly.
I had tax and MOT on my cars and vans.
And I grew flowers and pushed our little children on the swings in our garden.
I didn’t have to be a street drunk to be an alcoholic.
I live in a nice house. Drive a nice car.
I have my hair cut. And I mow the grass verge in the lane.
Life takes on a simplicity of its own as I grow older.
Even in the height of my madness, I bought the Sunday papers and read them.
I loved the obituaries, the world and local news and the book section.
Both my father and my maternal grandfather were alcoholics.
It’s strange to think my mother escaped the home of her alcoholic father to end up marrying my alcoholic dad.
It happens.
It was only when, as a young boy of maybe 6 or 7, I was at a friend’s house, and his dad helped him mend his bike.
I was mesmerised. I didn’t know until that day, that this is what Dads and grandads in the normal world did.
And from that tender early age, I vowed if ever I had children of my own, they would be raised by both their parents.
And I kept to that promise.
One day in early recovery, I was 6 years sober, I met a guy in recovery. A newcomer. And a soon to be sponsee .
And 19 years later, that relationship still survives.
Apart from our alcoholism, we both share a love of books.
We both have the same sense of disconnect in the world, but also share the same love for our children.
We both live with our children’s mum, and we work hard to provide and protect our little ones.
Our bookshelves are our worlds.
They are our go to places for our pastimes and solitude.
They hold a material record of us in the books we’ve collected.
And we are those books.
We read different books, he’s more learnedly an outgoing person than I am.
But books, nevertheless, hold for us an almost mystical, yet solid place for us to retreat to, when we find the time.
Some of my books I will never read again. Others I know I’ll read multiple times.
Either way, they are not on the bookshelves for show.
They are our souls, our thinking minds in words.
When we read, we are engrossed. Almost hypnotised into another existence.
And that shared common denominator we hold is not unlike what we use to do before we met. And that’s to drink.
For as with a good read, where we can escape and indulge our fantasies, a bottle of wine, or a few pints, achieved the same.
But the big difference today is that the books don’t have the consequences of a bottle of Gin.
But they do have something infinitely more rewarding and somehow more important than a bottle, they hold some good memories. But unlike a bottle, that once drank, must be replaced. A good book can go on for ever, inspiring, and captivating our minds.
So, this Queens jubilee weekend, instead of getting legless on cheap Gin, I’m going to get a good book down from the bookcase, and for maybe half an hour, I’m going to indulge in a bit of me therapy.
I’m going to strengthen my mind. I will study. I will do something that requires concentration. I will do something useful, and I won’t be a mental loafer. I will read something that requires effort, thought and concentration.
And when I’m done reading ‘more about alcoholism, and the family afterwards’ I’m going to put the book quietly back on the shelf and go and spend some quality time within the warm and secure arms of my family.
 

Anon