by Angela Perez
When I was drinking heavily during the pandemic, I often did not know what day it was. Didn’t matter. For the first few months of the crisis, my days and nights were delineated by either imbibing or wallowing in a sweaty hangover and eating cheeseburgers and pizza until the pain subsided. And then I’d feel well enought that I could “party” again (though, only my dog, Tater, was there, and he wasn’t a partier, so I was alone in my endeavor, and he was annoyed by how loud I played early Van Halen, Black Sabbath, and the Stooges).
Starting this past April, I decided to take a break from working and focus on writing, living in the moment, recording what I saw, and unleashing the full raw power of my creative side onto the world. I mean, why the hell not give it a shot? We’ll all be dead one day before too long.
I’m no longer hungover or languishing in a brain fog from cold gin and warm tequila. Once again, just like during the pandemic, I find myself not knowing or caring what day it is. This free time, combined with not using drugs and alcohol to push back dark thoughts, pain, misleading nostalgia, and so forth, is less fun and more creatively productive than I thought it would be. My days aren’t carefree because being carefree isn’t in my nature. Risking it all is definitely in my nature, but that ain’t the same thing as being carefree. So far, after a month and a half, I am not capable of carefree. And living in the moment has led me to take an inordinate number of naps. Or that is middle age. A wild streak in a middle-aged person must be harnessed and prevented from daytime napping.
After five months of not being tempted to drink even once, this past Monday, for no reason that I could pinpoint, I wanted to get drunk. I mean balls-out, throw-down, chain-smoke cigarettes, carousing-with-the-barflys loaded. My craving kicked in during the rainy, muggy afternoon as I was cruising to the beach to bird-watch a nesting ground for gulls I had recently found. On that drive, a craving for a gin and tonic in a dark, cool bar came on strong. And I wanted a couple dozen menthol cigarettes to go with it. But instead, I stopped in at an expensive, dimly-lit French restaurant, went to the bar, and asked the bartender to make me a non-alcoholic drink that felt like gin.
And she happily did it. Two of the bartenders there ended up sharing with me their own problems with addiction and depression and how they’d been coping. One fella takes it all out in the gym (he was buffed up like a bodybuilder). The lady bartender works it all out by taking regular treks to Southern California for Kambo. This South American healing ritual incorporates the poisonous secretions of a frog. Indigenous peoples have used it for centuries, but it can cause unpleasant side effects. She said she mostly just vomits and poops until all of her pain and anger, and anxiety is cleared out. I didn’t ask her how long it took for new shit to occupy her body. I should have. I will next time. I think I found the right bar for me.
The craving passed, and my five months of sobriety remains wholly intact. I learned a lesson this week, whatever pain or sadness that has plagued my whole life is still lurking, still lounging smugly just below the surface of my day-to-day oblivion. I used to look forward to using drugs and alcohol because I knew some glorious numbness was headed my way. That numbness helped me ignore the void in me. But now, when I think about drinking or doing bumps in the ladies room, I only feel empty – because I now focus on where that imbibing is going to leave me – a deep pit of despair. But sometimes, I’ll admit, I miss that quick fix, that sweet numbness and regular life isn’t quite the same. Regular, sober life is better in most ways, but it won’t be all it can be until I fix a few things in my soul. I’m working on that, folks.
