OFM thoughts
A Queer in Recovery
Fiercely Sober Hi, my name is _______, and I am an alcoholic. I have spent some time trying to differentiate in my mind what makes an alcoholic different from a heavy or even problem drinker, and I think I narrowed it down to one thing: the inability to control usage. Entering into AA, I was asked this simple question: have I had several failed attempts at trying to cut back, limit, or quit drinking? I can easily answer yes to that question and can therefore be classified as an addict. Yet, is it as simple as that? When did I cross the line from “a little too much a little too often” to “I can never touch the stuff again?” What happened to me is not uncommon, I believe. I began with using alcohol the way it was intended; prescribing myself a beverage whenever a thing happened. A celebration, a devastation, a stressful event, a time to relax, a social gathering, a rough week, etc. These were all reasons to pour myself a cold one and sip away; however, there came a time when a thing no longer needed to happen in order for me to be drawn to the bottle. When push came to shove, I could find any reason, and when I stopped looking for reasons, that’s when I knew my drinking was bad. I had attempted all the tricks in the book to gain control of my drinking: I switched from wine, to beer, to ciders, to hard seltzers, to liquor, and back to wine again. I thought if I didn’t like what I was drinking then I wouldn’t have an issue stopping after a couple beverages, but I always ended up drinking more than I intended. I tried to limit the drinks I allowed myself to a number that felt reasonable, but most of the time, I lost track or didn’t care to keep counting. I typically could hold myself to my limit when I was drinking with others, but when I finally was alone, I could drink the way I really wanted. Swigging in secret directly from the bottle behind drawn blinds and passing out on the living room floor was really a sexy way to prove to myself I didn’t have a problem … but I digress. Even though I had failed at trying to control my drinking more times than I believe is possible to count, I was still convinced that one day, I would find the magical combination of the type of alcohol and the kind environment that would finally make one or two drinks enough. I never found it. 5 6 OFM M A R C H 2 0 2 1
I have been told I have an “allergy” to alcohol. It’s not the traditional allergy you might imagine, where once I sip a drink, I immediately break out in hives and swell up to the size of Violet Beauregarde from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Instead, once I get a taste of it, when the alcohol touches my lips, my allergy tells my brain that no amount I consume is enough and that I should keep drinking.
One drink is too many, one thousand is never enough. Quite a strange allergy, isn’t it? Alcoholism is a cunning, baffling, and powerful allergy, a true disorder of the mind that tricks us addicts every single time. No amount of willpower is ever enough to fight the urges, cravings, and inevitable binges. I used to think I was weak and lacked willpower; I subscribed to the moral model when assessing my inability to quit. The moral model says that alcoholism is a character defect, an ambivalence to the harm that an addict inflicts on themselves and others. “If only I were stronger, more principled, and of sound mind, then I could control my drinking.” In rehab, they taught us that our allergy is due to an illness, a disease that I have zero control over, and it is because of my body chemistry, alongside a genetic predisposition, that I am this way. They told me it was inevitable, that if I drank alcohol at any point in my life, then I would end up a drunk. However, I strongly dislike this explanation alone because it completely shucks off any personal responsibility and claims that it’s simply a result of my illness that I am willing to do shameful and demoralizing things to get my fix. As a person who relies on self-hatred and self-deprecation in order to propel myself into action, I don’t succumb to this model easily. I think it’s more complicated than that ... I am a survivor of sexual trauma and deal with PTSD, and through therapy, I have learned a lot about how my brain protects me from experiencing further trauma. You are likely familiar with fight-versus-flight, how some of us in dangerous situations step up and take things head on while others run away as means of protection. You may even know of the freeze concept where the body is rendered immobile and unable to respond. However, there are two, more complicated, neurochemical processes that some can experience: fawn and flop. Fawn is when the brain goes into placate mode; one may be willing to concede to and even play into the aggressor’s demands, often shape-shifting their personality or actions in order to alleviate the stress. I, on the other hand, am the lucky owner of the flop mechanism. It is basically just as it sounds: I faint, my brain goes completely offline, and my body’s muscle memory comes online and takes over. When I am faced with something that triggers my PTSD, my body surges with adrenaline and I completely disassociate. I am no longer aware of my surroundings, I lose track of space and time, and it can take from minutes to hours in order to fully assimilate again.
