A Man Takes a Drink

Facing my addiction every day

I hate this picture. I hate it so much it almost causes me physical pain. I’m repulsed every time I look at it, but I never delete it from my phone. It’s always there, and I see it periodically when scrolling through my photos.

I took this selfie on a snowy March day back in 2015. There was a lot going on at the time, including a mass exodus of employees leaving my shop. During my morning errands, I stopped and grabbed a fifth of Bulleit bourbon. It was cracked before I started my car.

There was some sort of major issue going on that day. That entire time period is a smooth haze, with no real transition from day to day, and I can’t place exactly what it was. I do know I was pissed off. I know that I screamed and howled to my wife, that I wished death on the people I worked with, that the growling that billowed from my mouth was less like a man and more like a monster.

I needed to clear my head. I wanted to walk.

The trails along Neshaminy Creek are beautiful covered in snow. I saw a dozen deer bouncing through the woods, not more than 20 yards away. I went sledding with strangers. At one point, I thought of laying down in those blankets of white and drifting to sleep, and I knew it would be my last.

Most of the day escapes me beyond that. The next thing I remembered was standing in the street, my wife’s car to one side of me, a police officer’s in front. It goes back to a smear of sleep and anger after that.

This behavior was nothing new to me. I had been an irrational and unpredictable drinker since I was a teenager. Landing in the hospital at 15, fighting my friends, storming off barefoot into the night, crying uncontrollably, destroying my possessions. The DUI didn’t stop me, the drunk and disorderly didn’t stop me, the abandonment from friends didn’t stop me. My wife couldn’t stop me, my kids couldn’t stop me.

It took a hard face to face with my own sorrow and suicidal thoughts to get help, and sobriety was only a small beginning to what is a lifelong journey of self improvement and constant vigilance. An alcoholic is always one drink away from a relapse and full collapse.

One drink. One drink that is constantly in my face. On the television, on the radio, in my facebook feed, the drive to work, the grocery store, the coffee shop. “My” bar is within line of sight of my business.

In AA they tell you to change people, places, and things. It’s part of recovery. You need to get away from all the things that encouraged you to pick up a drink and make new habits. I can’t avoid mine. It’s there every day, and there’s no way I can change that, unless miraculously all the bars in Fishtown closed.

I never park south of my block. It’s too close to the bar that I haunted, even though it’s no more than 50 feet further from my door. Every fucking day I have to drive past that building, and every fucking day I am reminded of the anguish I caused my loved ones. Every day I come face to face with my own pain, and my own regrets.

These regrets don’t define me. They don’t destroy my strength, they fuel it. I know I don’t have to make the decision to walk in that bar, pull up my stool, and order a double Maker’s Mark. That decision is no longer an option, and I know that if I ever take a drink, my life is effectively over.

When I drive past the bar, or see the billboard for my liquor of choice, I think about the consequence of my actions. I think about how far I’ve come as a person. Then I think about all the others who suffer their addiction in silence, and I know that my purpose is greater than my own petty grievances and struggles with alcohol.

I keep this picture because it throws it right in my face that I’m a fucking alcoholic. I can’t deny, I can’t forget, and I can never take a drink again. That’s fine. My life is so much fucking better now. I look at this picture to keep me humble, and to make sure I always have to face the reality of who I am, where I came from, and how far I’ve come. If I can do it, anyone can do it. There is a way out.

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