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. 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.

These episodes have increased in frequency quite a bit in my early sobriety, as drinking often acted as a way to soften the edges of my memory and weaken my senses to where disassociation was less likely. This is both a con and a pro of my recovery, a con because I don’t know what will trigger me and how long I will be “gone,” but a pro because I’m better understanding myself and am able to start healing.

This now brings us closer to a theory I identify more with when it comes to classifying my alcoholism: the psycho-dynamic model. This Freudian theory links problems with how we cope to our childhood. There is an unconscious motivation buried deep in my psyche that wants to protect me from the re-traumatizing flashbacks and memories associated with my PTSD, and abusing alcohol is an easy and fast way to achieve that result.

When I assess my personal history, a hybrid of the disease and psycho-dynamic models gives me the most accurate diagnosis to my alcoholism. With a predisposition of addiction that runs on both sides of my genetic pool coupled with my early-life trauma, I arrive at a place where I can better understand why my brain and body respond to alcohol the way that they do.

Even though getting sober has brought more instances of disassociation, I am now able to deal with the root issues that my alcohol consumption was covering up, and even exacerbating. Now that I wake up in the morning without physical and emotional hangovers, I can think clearly, ride the waves of feelings as they wash over me, and allow them to give insight to my responses. Yes, at times, it would be easier to mentally check out with the help of a little sauce, but I know in the long run, that will not serve me. Healing my brain from trauma and my body from the poison I poured into it for years is my number-one priority.

I’m not sure when I crossed the threshold of problem drinker into a full-blown alcoholic, but I know that no matter what I tried, I could not control my drinking. The only decision I can make now with any reassurance that my allergy will not completely rip my life away from me is to never pick up another drink. In my opinion, understanding my motivations to drink and subscribing to a certain model of explanation does very little to prevent me from drinking. Instead, I find it better to focus on what I want out of this short life and then ask myself if alcohol leads me closer or takes me further away from those things. While the allure of alcohol may still be powerful, and the desire for my mind to escape hasn’t completely been lifted, I feel incredibly fierce every time I say no to booze for one more day.

-An anonymous queer in recovery

Follow @queer.in.recovery on Instagram or email a.queer.in.recovery@gmail.com for additional support and resources.

American Queer Life Heroines I Have Known

by Rick Kitzman

She clings to your heart She won’t let you depart

La Femme Accident, 1985 Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark

Ihave loved the male sex, to some degree of awareness, for almost six decades, yet ironically, women have formed the bulk of my relationships. Unlike Wonder Woman, Black Widow, or Captain Marvel, my super-heroines have battled real-life challenges—kids, career, sickness, to name a few— succeeding or overcoming them with compassion and courage, an endless enthusiasm to serve and a ceaseless sense of humor. There’s no better place to begin than with:

Family Heroines

Mom because she was smart, funny, creative, a terrific cook and homemaker, and filled with infinite love. Sarah Schmierer Kitzman was born in 1913 to poor farmers in Loveland, her mother dying in the 1918 Spanish Flu pandemic. At 12, she had a tough row to hoe, literally: she weeded acres of sugarbeets (backbreaking work) and took care of her two, younger siblings. Sarah was passionate about school, graduating from the eighth grade. She raised five children with a husband of 62 years, worked hard for her money (cue Donna Summer), and retired well. Despite heartbreaking poverty, Sarah was gracious, positive, and appreciative; she laughed often and exemplified how to transcend adversity.

My grandmothers Christina Zoeler Schmierer and Elizabeth Pfaltzgraff Kitzman because around 1910, with kids in tow, little money, and few belongings, these strangers to each other landed in the United States as German immigrants from Odessa, Russia. Miserable obstacles did not prevent them from providing a better future for their children, eventually a combined total of 22.

Alison Kitzman, my niece, because she became a full professor at a Japanese university, a rare feat for an American female in a highly protective and male-dominated society like Japan.

Friends

Sara Myers because, as my roommate, we braved New York together, making each other laugh through many challenges. After contracting ALS, Sara lived with joy, passion, and gratitude, still able to play a brilliant rubber of bridge.

Terry Delisa because, more than 30 years ago, she allowed me to anoint her “Cherry Delicious,” the best porn name ever. Terry exemplified the struggles of a single woman fighting custody battles for her kids and succeeding in a male-dominated business world. Today, she relishes grandmother-hood provided by her son and his husband.

Hope Rogers because she went to the bottom of the planet as housing manager for McMmurdo Station in Antarctica, meeting her husband and becoming a Kiwi. Hope is the smartest and funniest person in the room (except when I’m present,) and her antics could provide hilarious fodder for long-running sitcoms.

Kagey Gronstal because we had a blast performing at the Chuck-Wagon Dinner Theater in Greeley, crazily moving to New York in 1976 to further that dream. Kagey was a talented actress the world never knew, being the first person I loved who was my age and died. (We were 25.)

Lu Mancinelli, because though she lost her battle with lupus, she never lost her sense of humor or undaunted tenacity battling medical and governmental bureaucracies for a modicum of benefit.

Miran d’Muse because she raised a beautiful, intelligent, and creative daughter, has survived 40 years at NBC in Rockefeller Center, has proved herself most loyal in challenging friendships, and has always supported yours truly in any creative endeavor I undertook.

An anonymous mother because, in the last 10 years of our 30-year friendship, she is raising her transgender son with unconditional love and support and an eagerness to learn from every unique opportunity that arises.

Teachers/Mentors

Holly Hart because she taught me the joys of Shakespeare and the English language. She also mentored me in the dramas of high school theater and coming out, explaining The Boys in the Band along the way. After we recently reconnected at the funeral of a dear friend, I realized Holly is the only one left alive who shares memories of my early teens. Deb Fultz because she mentored me to be a director of human resources when no one else would take a chance on an ol’ fag (I was 38), guiding me to a successful and satisfying career.

Dr. Marcia Wilcoxen because polio did not prevent her from becoming a wife, a mother, a tenured professor. Dr. Wilcoxen had a rapier wit, a mind of infinite knowledge, and a magical talent to bring the history of women vividly to life.

Others

I must mention the following: Aunt Rose, who was the funniest woman I ever knew; Aunt Iona, whose sweetness I reaped as her godson; the Berger women, who all had careers in nursing; our Latina housekeepers, Suzi and Artimia, whose daughter owns the business; Addison and Maggie who, as the new owners of OFM, excitingly represent local entrepreneurship of the second-oldest, independent, LGBTQ publication in America.

Here are some heroines I have not known: RBG, Bette Davis, Melissa Etheridge, Billie Jean King, k.d. lang, Pat Schroeder, Tina Turner, and thousands of lesbian and straight sisters who joined forces with their gay brothers during the AIDS crisis.

I’m sorry you will never know my heroines, nor I yours, for I know you have your own to honor. Space limits my list, but as OMD’s song affirms, les femmes will always cling to my heart and never depart.