Fuck AA

Faux heroes. Glorified victims. If mediocrity had a smell, this would be it.

We live in a world of faux heroes and glorified victims. With enough manipulation you get to be both. This is where organizations like A.A. come into play. You get to be the victim to a superficial disease. You play the hero by battling it every day. It trades real progress for a day-by-day mentality. I didn’t drink today. I’m winning at life!

“Oh fuck you! You don’t know the truth behind addiction!”

“Looks like someone is just making an excuse.”

“You’re just some loser drunk who doesn’t have a girlfriend!”

“A.A. saved my life you piece of shit!”

I can hear the blogs firing up. I see your demonizing Facebooks. Don’t worry. I’m sure that your microbrew beers were destroying your future. I bet you got a B in philosophy because of your addiction. I bet you almost got into a wreck because you were too fucking cheap to get a cab home instead of driving. I bet you decided to stop drinking because your soon to be ex college sweetheart threatened to leave you. How is Harvard by the way? I never bothered applying. Then again as the proud owner of a GED I doubt they would have taken me anyway. This isn’t for you anyway.

This is for the ones who drink convenience store beer. Forty Ounces of Mickeys and six packs of tall-boys. Cheap whiskey or that horrendous seven dollar a liter vodka we real fuck ups know as Heaven-Hill.

Now the question! What do I know?

A night of “bad decisions” brought on by excess and subconscious fears. Excuses for whiskey dick. A night where children are conceived, disease spread because let’s face it, condoms are for pussies. Work doesn’t matter, nor do the bills we’re forced to pay. We are more ourselves this night than any other. These nights we feed our souls like the good heathens we are.

God doesn’t exist here. If he does, we realize he has abandoned us for different projects. God is an artist and we are the fingerpainting of a five year old discovering his power of creation. We are put away in a dark little box along with other items we’re conditioned to appreciate.

These nights give way to mornings of awkwardness. Passion becomes a wave of regret.

“Who the fuck is she?”

“What the fuck did I do?”

“What the fuck happened?”

The worse of the what questions you can ever ask yourself.

So instead of taking your medicine. Instead of realizing that maybe you just hate your job or that person you cheated on, or that your benign little life needs some shaking up. You go home, or call into work, or call that person on the phone. They scream, bitch, moan, and threaten to leave or fire you. You just spent all night not giving a fuck and all you want are the comforts you have been conditioned to enjoy. So you find a cop out. You find the most beautiful excuse in the world. You utter those five little words.

“I think I need help…”

Just like that everyone is shocked. Wedding rings are put back on, hugs are given, and kisses are placed on foreheads. Tears are shed, and the familiar feeling of getting away with it sets in. Like a child blaming somebody else for killing the family cat. You did it and you loved it.

Sentenced by circumstance. After coming to after a binge where I just called into the job I hated one too many times, they threatened to let me go. One more incident being late or calling it I was done. The place didn’t pay much but I had a little side gig. I’d miscount a few bags of concrete or toss in a few extra boards and I’d get tipped very well. I easily made anywhere from twenty to sixty bucks a day. Non taxed. Was it stealing? Yes. Do I feel the least bit bad about it? No.

So I waited for my moment and uttered those five little words to my boss.

“I think I need help…”

Boom motherfucker! Just like that with those five syllables I was no longer some slacker who thought he was above the rules. I became a damaged troubled soul in desperate need of healing. Coming in hungover and apathetic about being some fucking worker bee went from annoying to just sad to them.

You see, these people are all stars of their own movie. I had became a damsel in distress, just with a beard, no tits, and worse hair. They pulled me into the back office and a manager sat down with me. He told me about how he had a drinking and drug problem as well. He told me about how he had gotten into a car wreck when he was a teenager and killed his best friend. I was about to say something smart then he started crying. He had always been decent. Gave me couple of rides and would buy me a drink when it was hot out. He wasn’t scared of getting dirty like the other managers and he actually liked me. I kept my mouth shut and let him relive his tragedies.

I was expecting a clean slate maybe a paid week off. There were flyers all around the place.

If you have trouble with addiction let someone know. We’re here for you. We’re a family. We love our family!

Yeah, they gave me medical leave without pay. I was on the phone with some “counselor” and told my story. I was sentenced to A.A. and put on leave until I could “recover.” Sure I could take as long as needed but I was broke. I had a week coming in and that was it. I was just heavy enough to get the maximum pay at the plasma center. I started doing math on my way out.

I reached out to a couple of places and found one near me. Walking distance if you can call an hour walking distance. I set up my first meeting to take place in a few days and waited.

If mediocrity had a smell, this would be it. Boring victims gathered around plastic tables and aluminum fold out chairs. They knew I didn’t belong here and they showed it too. Nobody welcomed or shook my hand with any genuine sense. Maybe they were all like me? They probably didn’t buy into this bullshit either…. right?

This may just be South Texas A.A. but they threw the junkies in with the drunks too. I don’t know if you can compare getting blitzed for a few weeks to sucking dick for a fix, but to them we were all on the same battlefield. I’m sure they saw themselves as martyrs with their fortune cookie logic and I’m reborn attitude. They all spoke of a higher power, which was and always will be Jesus. Not the cruel cynical God that kills people and bangs other men’s wives. Not the Son who was a martyr. The junkies all trading that lean physique for an equally lean savior on a Cross.

Like these idiots would be original enough to worship anything else.

Just once I want to see some guy in a meeting light some black candles and thank Satan for his sobriety. Or Pan if they prefer Crowley to Lavey. But I digress.

Archetypes

A.A./N.A. have archetypes. I’d like to share a few of them with you. I’ll attempt to capture their voice.

The Regular; Let’s call this man Doug.

Doug: I never noticed it at first. I just figured that after work, dealing with numbers and decisions all day I’d have a few drinks to mellow out. I’m still not sure when it happened but it did. That’s the trouble with alcohol it creeps up on you and then one day you wake up five years later not knowing what happened or how you got there.

My wife and I started to argue a lot and I’d have a drink or walk away. I believe that I was causing the arguments because I wanted an excuse to drink. Eventually she got fed up and left, took the kids and the house too. I blamed her and stayed drunk for over a year. I lost my job and she stopped letting me see my children. I don’t blame her. I was a toxic person. One day I woke up and wanted a change.

That’s when I found the program. I work a retail job now and I love it! I like making peoples day better. I get to see my kids every other weekend now and I’m seeing the world though sober eyes. The program saved my life. I have no control over my disease and my higher power keeps me straight!

Cue the applause and a few whistles. Everyone’s so proud of Doug and his accomplishments. Doug gets “heavy metal,” that little metal pendant that most wear around their necks to how off a year of sobriety.

Notice anything missing from his story? The drama! See I believe that Doug doesn’t belong here. He needs to be here. He needs to blame something for his relationship failing. Refusing to accept the fact that maybe she just found him profoundly boring.

The Badass, we’ll name him Jose.

Heavily tattooed and looking like they watched Blood In Blood Out one to many times in their lifetime.

Jose: Yeah I don’t like talking like this (yes he does, he loves preaching), but I know some people are lost and I want to help guide them. Drugs and alcohol landed me in prison (Given his appearance you would assume assault or robbery. Nope I’ve known plenty of these types. It more often than not is sexual assault. Wanna know a quick trick to find out? Ask them what they did if they come up with some answer like “some bullshit” or “it’s in the past” they probably fucked out of their age range). I found my higher power. Jesus Christ. I don’t know what yall’s higher power is but Jesus saved me and I’m not ashamed. I’ve had some slips (A slip is the reason he’s here) but I know the Lord is just testing me though.

Our Badass is probably a member of the Outcry in the Barrio and likes looking tough at bus-stations while preaching about the lord and his hyperbolic past.

Mommy Dearest.

Mommy Dearest: Hi everyone, (Hi! Mommy Dearest!) Drugs and Alcohol ruined my life. I was pregnant and shooting heroin and drinking. I couldn’t even hold my baby when it was born. Social services took it away. Just recently I found out that my baby is having seizures due to withdrawals. I just want everyone to know I’m trying to get better for my kids. I know I don’t have any control over my disease (here come the tears) I’m just sick. I’m sorry. (She takes a seat, buries her face in her hands and starts crying.)

It’s always easier to blame something else than looking in the mirror and saying this. I am a bad mother.

Say it loud now!

I am a bad mother and should never have brought a child into this world.

You getting the picture now? These people want anything to blame other than themselves. Doug probably isn’t even a drunk just lonely, Mr. Badass is trying to appeal to the parole board, and Mommy Dearest, well, she deserves to have her children taken away.

We’re diseased.

We’re sick.

We have no control.

We can’t help it.

Woe is me.

I don’t wanna go back to jail.

I came out of my first meeting feeling like shit. I called Holly, the woman who was going to leave me anyway.

“Hey baby how was the meeting?” She said, kicking up the enthusiasm.

“It was fine I’ll see you tomorrow right?”

“Of course!”

See, I had uttered those five little words to her too, and it saved my relationship, but only temporarily. I hated that damn job but I truly believed I loved her. She told me she’d be my replacement for drinking. She’d just end up another reason I get drunk a specific day out of the year. I hung up and walked into the nearest bar. The place was close enough to plenty of ‘em.

I kept going to the meetings, watching them all claim powerlessness and disease. I didn’t bother learning any of their names. I’d call Holly and feel bad for lying to her. In her palace of financial and emotional security I was an oddity. Something to be studied. I’m sure she learned her lesson.

I learned to tune them out. I never spoke. What was I supposed to say? I liked to drink and it allowed me to sit among people I otherwise found detestable and equally boring? I’m here because I decided I needed an excuse to maintain a temporary relationship and a job I despised?

Week after week and trip after trip to the plasma center kept me occupied. I started living two lives. I finally managed to convince the voice on the phone that I was all cured. I kept telling her how being back at work would help.

I think I lasted two weeks before I quit on my own terms. Holly left shortly after that.

I remember her last words to me.

“I love the way you love me, but I can’t stand all the hate.”

She didn’t leave because of my drinking. She left me because I truly despised the world.

So maybe as a society we should stop trying to exorcise our demons and put those fuckers on a leash. I’m sure organizations like A.A and N.A. have killed more people than they save. All that talk of disease and powerlessness tends to get to make it true. Take a drink, call it a relapse and it all comes flooding back. Those self deprecating mantras. So the solution becomes a noose or a revolver. You are diseased, you are powerless, you are worthless. Of course the second you slip up and have a drink or a bump you decide to off yourself.

Suicide victim battled with drugs and alcohol. It’s always worded that way.