A Queer in Recovery: Admitting Powerlessness is Where the Hope Is
Step One: We admitted we were powerless over alcohol and that our lives had become unmanageable.
Hi, my name is ________, and I’m an alcoholic.
Eleven months ago, I lay sprawled out on the couch in my living room, one leg planted firmly on the ground. I was told a long time ago that if I drank too much and felt I was going to puke, it’s best practice to keep one foot flat on the ground and to calm the spins. On this day, however, nothing was working. I had drunk an entire handle of vodka in less than two days, and no amount of grounding techniques were going to take away my misery.
I was like a ragdoll; a crying, drunken mess of despair, and as my indifferent gaze hazily looked around the room, I truly pondered if I had even an ounce of hope left in me. I was drinking all day, every day, and I knew without a doubt that I was completely powerless over alcohol. I knew I needed to quit drinking and get help in order to save my own life, but the trouble was, I didn’t know if I was worth saving.
Powerlessness is a strange thing to admit because it is shrouded in guilt, shame, self-hatred, and disgust. I was like a slow leaking faucet: no matter how hard I tried to stop the drip, every bit of self-dignity was falling out of me. Drinking was no longer a choice for me; it was survival and the mental obsession that every addict faces had completely consumed me. It was as though there was a gravitational pull toward alcohol that I couldn’t understand.
I felt like there was something wrong with me, that I was a broken shell of a failed human being, and there was no amount of work, willpower, or bargaining that could change this vicious cycle. What I didn’t realize was that all I had to do was be completely honest with myself, and another person, in order to change.
“When I think about the role that power played in my relationship with alcohol, I must admit on a daily basis that I am powerless over it in order to have any hope at staying sober.”
Vulnerability is scary, and being truthful about the state of my alcoholism was not only mortifying, it was shocking and vile. No one in my life had suspected that I was in the grips of this disease because I was so “functional.” Sure, they might have wondered why things seemed a bit off, why I would cancel plans or not see through family obligations, or why I was missing small deadlines here and there at work, but no one knew how bad things had gotten. I refused to let on that I was helpless when it came to booze.
A typical day for me in the last year of my active addiction to alcohol was, I would wake up in the morning with my head pounding and hands trembling from withdrawal. I was most likely still a bit drunk from the night before, and it was doubtful that I got more than a couple hours of sleep. I would need “just one shot” of vodka to clear my head and calm the shakes, and I promised myself that it would just be one. However, I was incapable of stopping once I started, and I would find myself drunk again before 9 a.m. This would then lead me into a long day of sneaking drinks, waiting until a break at work to get more, hiding empty bottles in the bottom of trash cans, and sipping just slowly enough to not appear as intoxicated as I was.
On that final night, I was tired of it all—tired of living the life of an addict stuck in the cycle of addiction, and I made a plan to end my life. I didn’t want to waste one more night laying sprawled out on that couch. As I said goodbye to my home, to my life, and to myself, I had the fortunate realization that I wanted to say goodbye to those I loved. That is what inevitably saved me that night as a family member swooped in during my time of crisis and offered me the help I so desperately needed.
When I think about the role that power played in my relationship with alcohol, I must admit on a daily basis that I am powerless over alcohol in order to have any hope at staying sober. In the 12-step program of Alcoholics Anonymous, step one is that we admit we are powerless over our drug of choice, and that our lives have become unmanageable.
It’s wild to think that my final night of drinking was only 11 months ago, because it feels like it was both yesterday and a decade ago. My mind still tells me lies that I can control my drinking this time; I’ve taken a long enough break that I could remain the one in power if I drank again. However, every, single day I need to remind myself of how bad it was in order to not believe the deception of my mind. This is where self-help, support groups, and honesty with others plays a pivotal role for me.
All it would take is one drink, and I’d be off to the races again, unable to stop, for who knows how long, and there’s no telling what kind of destruction would ensue. I have completely accepted this fact, as shitty as it is sometimes. For I know, if I ever pick up a drink again, it’s because I have given up on myself and believe it better to die in my disease than to keep fighting another day.
-An anonymous queer in recovery
Email a.queer.in.recovery@gmail.com for additional support and resources.
