I’m grateful to watch the sun turn the buildings orange. I’m grateful for a really exciting day. I’m grateful for possibilities and potential. I’m grateful for a chance to build something. I’m grateful for chances, in general. I’m grateful to be sober today
Well, we are officially one week away from Valentine’s Day, I may be going out on a limb here, but I think Valentine’s Day is secretly hated by many, if not all, alcoholics. I think back to the trauma of passing out those little valentines cards in school and wondering feverishly what the reactions were going to be. I look back at that episode and realize I had a pretty complicated, overwrought emotional life as far back as the Second Grade.1
It was always a pretty fraught holiday during my drinking days and I think I’m not alone. Being in a relationship with an alcoholic/addict is not always the most romantic thing and I think that often gets painted in pretty stark relief on days like Valentine’s Day. The non-alcoholic sees all of the beautiful people starting a beautiful evening in a beautiful place with a beautiful flute of champagne and wonders what it would like to not have that first drink be like the starting gun of a race to incoherence and resentfulness. The alcoholic is either frantically overdoing Valentines Day in an effort to make up for the many, many sins, both of omission and commission, or resentfully participating in a farcical, made-up enterprise that requires us to sober up a little more than we prefer and pretend a little harder than usual.
I spent a Valentine’s Day in rehab and it was about what you would expect, maybe a little worse. This was my second trip to sleep-away rehab; the first effort, a few months before, had netted just a few hours of sobriety upon my release from captivity.2 Predictably, the relationship I had tried to save with my trip to rehab had not survived, and also very predictably, my drinking had now veered to the uncontrolled part of the dial. After a few weeks of post-holiday free-fall, I finally responded to a friend’s repeated, very concerned, texts. He called, I answered. I told him, yes, I had been drinking, for a while, and yes, it had gotten kind of bad. He said he knew. He said, “what do you think?” I said, “I don’t know.” He said, “maybe back to rehab?” A long pause, “f***, yeah, probably.” He asked where I was, “Logan Tavern,” I told him. He laughed, “I would never think to look for you there.” Actual dark, sardonic laugh, “Yeah, I know.”
He told me to stay put and keep drinking. I could definitely do that. He arrived about an hour later, sat down on the stool next to me and looked meaningfully at me, “How are you, buddy.” I tossed off a scornful laugh, “how the f*** do you think?” Then the lament of all alcoholics, “why do I do this, why can’t I stop, why do I f*** everything up over and over, why won’t anyone stay, why can’t I stop, what the f*** is wrong with me, why can’t I stop, why do I do this?” My friend nodded sagely, “I’ll tell you why.”
“You’re a fucking alcoholic. That’s why.”
I finished my drink, we went to my house and he helped me pack and drove me to rehab that night. I know we stopped at a convenience store on the way and I downed a couple of those horrible miniature sized bottles of warmish pinot grigio. My friend laughed, “Drink up, buddy, the end is near!” ha ha ha. I don’t remember anything else about my triumphant return to rehab. It was night and I was pretty drunk, but I don’t think anyone spread cloaks or palm fronds in my path to the medical facility to detox.
It was February and I was in f****** rehab again.
I bonded with KC, we smoked cigarettes in the gazebo in the raw, cold wind and told the stories of the demise of relationships we thought were permanent. We complained pretty bitterly about how little understanding non-alcoholic civilians have for us poor, afflicted alcoholics. When we couldn’t hold cigarettes in our frozen hands anymore, we paused our lamentations and went back into the house that held the real horror: more alcoholics.
Since my visit was somewhat unplanned, and the packing had been a bit haphazard, I needed to buy a variety of staples like shampoo and shaving cream and what-not. Fortunately, there was a pretty large store on campus and they carried not only a wide array of recovery-related literature and decorating accents, but also sundries. I walked up the hill during a break and into the store and I was completely beset by perhaps the largest display of Valentine’s Day-related paraphernalia ever in the entire history of mankind.3
There were tons of cards, candy, small plants and flowers, stuffed animals, mugs; every fucking thing that could be re-packaged to help send a message of romantic love to someone special had been and was on sale in the f****** rehab store. I pushed my way through the brambles of all of that cupid-inspired stuff and was treated to a new outrage: They sold only travel sizes of things like shampoo and soap and non-alcoholic mouthwash and toothpaste.
what.the.f***
At dinner, in our glass-enclosed, “private” dining area in the Sodexho-run cafeteria, I was on fire. Number one, who the f*** here in rehab even has a valentine left? I pantomimed the obvious charm of receiving a thoughtful Valentine’s Day teddy bear from your ex-boyfriend in rehab. Hmmm, what’s the right card to send with that?
Roses are red, Violets are blue, I'm back in rehab again, Yeah, I know.
I don’t think Hallmark has that one. But my especial scorn was saved for having only travel-sized sundries: Like anyone comes here for a weekend? You’re here for a month, maybe longer! Can I please have the grown-up size shampoo?
Well, you get the idea. You’ll get even more of the idea if I can manage to finish something special I’ve been working on:
“My Funny Rehab Valentine”
Coming soon to a newsletter arriving in your actual email inbox somewhere around the actual Valentine’s Day! As I mentioned the other day, we will also be releasing a new episode of Breakfast with an Alcoholic this weekend and I’m very excited about that. Oh, by the way, what do you think of this?
Thanks for Letting Me Share
Yes, this pre-dates my drinking by about a decade.
This could be an exaggeration, but it’s how it felt.
I found there to be some strange coincidence in my sobriety date being Feb. 15
I was enraged WITH you over all the f***ing valentines s**t and none of the f***ing grownup toiletries. I mean what the hell?!
The sign converted my rage to rapture at the end, though. Love it!