Tuesday 22 July 2014

Disturbing the peace: Listening to all my voices

One of my favourite poems is Adam Zagajewski's "Ode to Plurality."*  It starts like this:

"I don't understand it all and I am
even glad that the world like a restless
ocean exceeds my ability
to understand the essence of water, rain,
of plunging into Baker's Pond, near
the Bohemian-German border, in
September, 1980, a detail without any special
meaning, the deep Germanic pond."

It's a masterful work. Zagajewski oscillates between the specific details of lived experience and different ways of knowing, the whole time singing the beauty and wonder of the world and the strange truth that philosophy doesn't trump poetry and poetry doesn't trump family stories and none of it trumps life in all its messy glory. Here's a little more:

"You, singular soul, stand before
this abundance. Two eyes, two hands,
ten inventive fingers, and
only one ego, the wedge of an orange,
the youngest of sisters, And the pleasure of
hearing doesn't destroy the pleasure of
seeing, though that flurry of freedom disturbs
the peace of the other gentle senses."

(OK, now I want to point out every line in the poem and just say, "Look. See? Don't you love it?" And then we can all cry and be happy together in poetry for a while.)

One of the things I treasure about being a part of the sober blogging community is the sense of belonging I sometimes feel here. For me, I think it's an important part of how I managed to quit drinking and stick with that until it became clear to me that it's a better way for me to live. I'm not used to feeling like I'm part of something, and I'm not sure I know how to do it. Because belonging means we're all here, and we're all different, and we won't all agree. There isn't a lot of explicit disagreement in this online world, in part I think because the point of being here is to belong to a group of people who are trying to find a way to live without alcohol, in a world where alcohol is very much the norm. But sometimes I worry that belonging means I'm editing away my own truth so as not to offend, and that won't work in the long run.

I thought about this when I wrote my last post. I had a hard time writing about my reaction to supposedly "alcohol-free" wine, which is really very low alcohol wine. For me, sharing a bottle means having the lion's share--I even outdrink my partner when we drink fizzy water. (I really am thirsty!) That means I inadvertently had about the equivalent of half an ounce of actual wine, and I reacted. I admitted to feeling a tad more-ish, even though the wine wasn't good. I already said that.

But I didn't say everything. I left out part of the story, because I wasn't comfortable talking about it. Sitting at the table, just finished dinner, talking to my partner, and having had what it turned out was a little bit of alcohol but not knowing that yet, my whole being was awash in a moment of sweet happiness. I felt like I belonged to the world and the world was good. Remembering that feeling now, I can't help but cry. All this talk about getting sober being a better way to live is good and true. But I need to admit this, in case I haven't before, because it's also true: when I gave up alcohol, I gave up something that could, at times, be lovely. I had forgotten about that.

To me, it's more helpful to know that. Now, at almost seven months sober, it can seem irrational to me that I would every have spent as much time and money and energy drinking. The other day, steeped in that warm, happy feeling, I recognized it, and I knew, "This is, in part, why I drank." It wasn't just the more-ishness that told me there had to be alcohol in that wine. It was that feeling.

I'm not making a case for drinking. Those days are over. I can't hold onto that moment anyway. One taste of it and I get that old hankering for more, and then I drink too much, and we all know how that goes. In fact, my reaction helped me see how powerful addiction is, and why I can't slither out of calling my problem addiction, as much as I guess I was still kind of hoping I could. When the tiniest bit lands me right smack in the middle of a home I thought I'd left behind forever, that's a dangerous substance for me.

This isn't a completely unfamiliar sensation. I'm from Newfoundland, a place I love, but I can't live there. In ways I have trouble explaining, it doesn't suit me. Despite that, for years as soon as I'd hear a certain song or even a turn of phrase, or see a picture of the rocks, or smell the salt air, I used to be wracked with homesickness. I longed to be home. But when I've tried to move back, even after years away, I feel myself slipping into a way of being that doesn't leave room for the person I've become. Whatever it is I miss about where I come from, I can't quite grasp it when I'm there.

And I think that's what drinking is like for me now. I can't go back. But I won't lie: there is a certain sweet happiness that I felt the other day that reminds me that alcohol wasn't all bad. It's just that that happiness is too fleeting for me to grasp. There's nowhere back to go.

Drinking isn't a simple problem, and getting sober isn't a story with clean lines. I guess today I needed to talk about the messier parts again, because they are part of me, too. That Zagajewski poem I love so much ends like this: "A poem grows/ on contradiction but can't cover it." I expect being a person is always going to mean being messy and contradictory. There's no hiding that. There's just life, in all it's messy glory, and us living it.

Wishing you all peace and joy to you all, and finding other ways to live those sweet happy moments.

---

*(Originally published in English in his book, Tremor (1985), I read it in Without End: New and Selected Poems (2002, p. 95). I can't find an online copy to link to, and too long to insert in a blog post, but if you do want to read it let me know and I'll type it out and send you a copy.)


20 comments:

  1. I find this quite challenging to read. Because it's so romantic.. and nostalgic.. and I can just feel that warm buzz and it makes me feel sad.. SHITBALLS!
    So what I have to do is work hard at my thinking so that I don't get drawn into that romantic sensation .. I have to tell myself 'of course it gives a warm feeling of sweet happiness.. it's a drug and it enhances the synapses and releases endorphins (or whatever, I'm making this science stuff up) and that's why we get that warm lovely happy sensation.. because of the impact the drug is having on our physical self'. and then I have to push my thinking past that warm lovely moment and remember all the reasons why I stopped in the first place.. because that first lovely warm glow tuns very quickly into a deadening, and a heavy blurring and a sloppy yukkiness because I am an addict and I will never keep myself at that slightly warmed buzzy phase… I will chase the drug until I pass out.. or it kills me… that's what I have to do in my head when I read this.. because otherwise I'll feel sad and glum and tempted.. and I can't have that. xxx

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    1. Mrs D, you're such a star! Thanks for reading and a giant thanks for getting it. Because yes, that was the thing, I can't hold onto that feeling, it's gone in a split second and then there's all the horror of icky drinking which I know too well and want nothing to do with. And because I'm an addict, I have to know what that feeling is and know that it's the beginning of a seduction into a very dark path. I just didn't want to pretend it hadn't been there, because that was what scared me so much and why I was so spooked and sad about that cursed fake wine. I could dig out my old biological psychology textbook and bang on about reward pathways in the brain and so on, but I know researchers are finding out new stuff all the time on that and I think by the time I read it, it's already out of date. One thing is sure though, for me I feel better being able to say, "Oh yes, I used to love wine" and understand what I mean by that, even while I know if I had it, it wouldn't work anymore. I didn't mean to make you sad. But I did find it sad, realizing this. And I didn't want to edit that out of existence.

      We're going to be OK. We can face these tough truths and live better lives. Here we go! xoxo

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  2. This post has provoked me just a little, to indulge in that memory that I've pushed rather aggressively out of my mind. It's more than a moment for me. More like half an hour. That first half hour of wine drinking that was utterly delightful -- no doubt. I miss it. But I love the fact too that I no longer lie to myself about it. How I know totally and utterly clearly that it was just a highlight before a slide into self abuse, and I can see it for that. It's actually a bit like remembering an old romance that was so totally wrong on so many levels, but there was still a hopeless attraction to that other person. It's healing to get to the point where you can look back and see it for what it really was... and not get drawn back in by being blinkered to the bad memories, or blinded by the good one. Love that poetry... I felt like I was in some kind of fast crazy brilliant word dance. Thanks for sharing.

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    1. Thanks, Sue. I'm relieved that you (and others) do sometimes acknowledge the appeal of that first bit of drinking. I had forgotten it--I'm very good at putting things out of my mind, too--so it was hard to get such a visceral reminder. I agree with you, it's not worth it any more, but I do need to be honest about the heady appeal. I'm glad you like the poem. Zagajewski is amazing! Take care. xo

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  3. There has definitely been a mourning part to the giving-up-drinking process. It is ongoing, though much less frequent these days. I get nostalgic for a tiny part of drinking - that lightness and easy detachment that happened in the early part of the buzz and was fleeting. I do get those sort of moments sober. More and more it seems, though it might be due to summer or who knows, really. (I don't want to jinx myself.) Anyway, I'm glad you're honest and feel comfortable being so.

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    1. Hi Kristen. Yes, the mourning, maybe I hadn't done that but I sure made u for it in a few days. I wouldn't say I was comfortable being honest, but I know if I don't hold myself to that, things start to go not so well for me. I think I get something like that feeling lots of other ways too now--yesterday it was a bike ride in the sprinkling rain followed by an americano and a slice of black cherry pie!--but like you say, it's not just the guaranteed, easy detachment. Thanks for reading and commenting! xo

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  4. Of course you felt that place! That's why we drank...to fill that part of our soul that was empty and damnit it worked...for a while anyway. I miss that feeling a lot. But over time the nostalgia wanes and the romance fades a little and it becomes more of an intellectual remembrance of what was rather than the actual feeling you're experiencing now. At least for me it is.

    That really doesn't make me miss it any less but it's the kind of missing that says, "It was great while it lasted folks but it's over now," rather than that "Oh my God I miss that so MUCH" feeling.

    I'm not sure if any of this makes any sense to anyone but me but I wanted you to know that, as usual, you're not alone. You're brave and honest and lovely and it makes me smile when I see a post from you in my feed.

    Namaste
    Sherry

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    1. Thanks, Sherry. You do make sense, and I'm grateful to hear what you say here. It really is good to know that you know that feeling I was talking about and everything that goes with it. But it made for a tough week, being tossed back into it. Thanks for the welcome reminder that I'm not alone. I'm really glad you're here, too. xo

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    1. Thanks for cheering me on, Donnie. I'm sure not ashamed of quitting drinking, I just had a few tough days after what I see was a mistake with "alcohol-free" wine. I like what you say about a new culture though. I think that's what we're doing, building a new culture as we go. Here's to that! Take care. xo

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  6. Thank you so much for the insight Thirsty. All the comments above are mighty thought provoking. I'm going to hold onto Donnie's positivity as I start my first ever sober family holiday today. Thanks too for sharing the poem; I'm looking forward to reading it properly once home... x

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    1. Hooray for thinking and poetry! Thanks for reading and keeping the conversation going, and good luck with your first sober family vacation. I was surprised to find that sober vacations are way way better! I hope yours goes really well. Take care. xo

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  7. Oh- I want a copy of that whole thing please. Yes! Orange slice, younger sister, this abundance.

    I was just commenting to Mrs. D that I miss that first twenty minutes of drinking. But that I'm not a twenty minute drinker, more like a drink twenty drinker. I am also very thirsty! I used to get beer to drink while my husband drank his red wine. I'd have three glasses of white to his one, then I'd guzzle beer and he would have a glass or two of red. I learned to get beer otherwise it would all be gone too soon and it would be all my fault.

    Email me more good poets that you adore and I am eternally grateful. :)

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    1. Amy, yes, I will send you the poem, and a few more, too. I'm glad you like it!

      And yes about that first fleeting bit of drinking joy--like you and Sue and Sherry and some others say, it's there and it's real, it's just not worth the hours of miserable drinking that come after it. I laughed at your "twenty-minute drinker" phrase. I'm certainly not that either!

      I'm also relieved to hear you were as thirsty as I was/am. I think that's not always a bad thing. I'm a bit greedy for other good things, too, and I gobble up books and poetry and bike rides and all sorts of good things. I just read The Brothers Karamazov, and I know struggling to stay awake long enough to read another few pages because I don't want the experience of reading this wonderful book to stop yet, that's not all that dissimilar to wanting to keep the evening going when you're drinking, but it's a far better thing to do with that thirsty intensity. I'm happy things are going well for you these days. Thanks for reading and commenting, and take good care. xo

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  8. I love the poem, too. I'm only abut a month out of drinking, so that nostalgia is a closer memory for me, and not that sweet. Maybe it's like childbirth - you forget all the pain, the angst and the mess, and only remember the sweet happiness. That first twenty minutes felt nice, but after slugging down glass after glass way too quickly, the sweet buzz would be ruined by the thick head, the vagueness of memory and the burden of addiction. Thanks for the honesty and the timely reminder

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    1. Yes, I think you're right, one forgets the pain and only recalls the blissy bits. Best not to go down that road. Thanks for reading. xo

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  9. I am late coming to this post, and a lot of what I was thinking as I read it through has been discussed in the previous comments… but at the risk of being repetitious, here goes! Oh, of course there is a lovely feeling, there is, and it is OK to say so. You are speaking your truth on your blog, and remember that as you speak it most of the people reading are thinking yes, yes I have felt this too. And if they don't, that is OK too, because we are all different. But yes - this is exactly where I struggled reading the Jason Vale book. I loved his positivity, and I love the idea of feeling happily alcohol free, and I don't want to spend my life feeling that I am depriving myself of something and missing out. But at the same time, I can't pretend to myself that it's something it's not. It *is* more complicated. Wine had that effect on me too, that first taste, that first glass. It did make me feel lovely, there *is* a reason that I drank it. It's not all marketing and a giant con trick. The problem is, as we all know and have felt (and have stated in the comments!) that I never left it at that - at that lovely warm glow gently happy feeling. I wanted more, more, more. Maybe booze just doesn't have that effect on everyone, which is why some people seem so comfortable to leave it at one glass, I don't know. Maybe it is like power. Those that want it the most are the last people who should have it. There are downsides to not drinking alcohol. There are moments that I miss. But taken as a whole package, adding up all the benefits with the losses, life is better this way: of that I am increasingly persuaded.
    And more poetry please! Love it. Am an ignoramus on poetry, and have never heard of Zagajewski (just cut and paste the name, rather than try to remember and type it, this is what an ignoramus I am), but I loved the lines that you quoted, that second stanza in particular.
    Thank you for the post :) xxx

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    1. Hi MTM. I'm super slow at getting back to some comments here. My apologies. I like what you say about being honest. I can't pretend there was nothing good about alcohol. When I try, I seem to be setting myself up for recalling that there was something really lovely and concluding that the whole sober lark was nonsense. But if I remember that drinking wine can be lovely and that I did love some of the feeling I got when I drank, then I can also remember that it almost always ended up with me drinking too much, and that's not what I want. I guess I'm suspicious of any kind of certainty that seems too brittle, as things are often more complicated. I'm willing to give up those good bits for the overall better, without having to think I was wrong for ever thinking there was anything good in it in the first place. I'm glad you get what I"m saying here, because it matters to me to try to be clear about all this. I'am also glad you like the Zagajewski poem. I love his writing! I'll look for some more poems to share, too. Thanks for reading and take care. xo

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  10. Yeah, that first sip, the first buzz... at first it was fun... and then it wasn't. The transition to not fun is a whole lot faster when you know it's a problem. There's no getting it back, is there? I try sometimes. I've quit a lot of times and then given it one last go for old time's sake, grasping at the dandelion clock of youthful exhilaration that's floating just out of reach. I always fall to earth with a bang.

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    1. And falling with a bang can hurt, right? For me it can. I agree with you, when you know how it will go, the fun kind of leaches out if the whole thing. Thanks for reading and adding to the conversation. xo

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