Just shy of having a legal drink, my body felt like a bloated beer keg. Bong zits circled my mouth. Night was day. Asthma plagued every inhale, and smoke marked every exhale. But the real assassin was the fissure inside, the one threatening to pull me into an abyss I couldn’t begin to fathom. The only relief from my fleshy humanity came in the exquisite moments just before I blacked out.
To now be the inaugural Steady Storyteller is a far cry from where my recovery began decades ago. When people ask me to share “what it was like, what happened, and what it’s like now,” they struggle to imagine me in the throes of alcoholism. But I can. And I know this illness doesn’t disappear. It waits. It can bloom again with a brutality that would shred everything I love.
In the very early days of my recovery, deep internal shame, the kind that pulsates in one’s solar plexus, kept me vigilant. As other fellow sufferers’ stories washed over my brokenness, a certain warrior spirit emerged, like fuck yeah, I’m doing this epically hard thing. It actually takes raw courage and guts. No matter how uncomfortable, dysregulated, and crazy I get, there’s no panacea coming to obliterate the emotional fallout from life’s experiences. This bravado armored my vulnerability, and perhaps gave off a stink of self-righteousness.
I had maybe a year of sobriety when my mom was admitted to the psych unit for suicidal ideation. Nursing an obsession with a hot AA member who friend-zoned me, I thought if I could just get tinier, he’d change his mind. Bowl of cereal. A sandwich. Cottage cheese. Rinse and repeat. My bones were making a rare appearance after being long buried by the excess of consumption. The hunger to be seen, heard, and feel connected became almost unbearable.
For some reason, when my mom transitioned from one hospital wing to the other, rehab, this ripped the scab off such a deep wound in me. Oozing pain and ancient grief spewed out with a ferocity even I didn’t recognize. The illness of alcoholism had taken on a new face, one of a ravenous beast. Bulimia. She would not take no for an answer. Binging. Purging. Going to meetings. Therapy. Binging. Purging. More meetings, therapy, family groups. I was asking for help, showing up, doing all the things, but to no avail. Within a few short weeks I wanted to die.
One afternoon the rehab’s executive director, Shirley, who knew our family well since four of us had trudged her halls, called asking me to come there. I knew what this was. They were disappointed in me. I needed to get a grip. Work harder. Just stop it already. These were the familial talks I understood. Upon arrival, she placed me in a sterile room. An eternity passed. Reappearing, she gingerly sat down and looked me in the eye. My Aunt Nancy had killed herself that morning. Asphyxiation. Nightgown. Bronco. Tragic. Funeral in Toledo.
Nancy Johnson Giha was her name. She loved to swim, read books, play bridge, laugh, tease sharply, drink scotch, smoke, cook, and garden. Her suicide prevented mine. I was furious at her. I had a plan. I couldn’t take being on the planet anymore. But her soul cracked first underneath the weight of our family’s unhealed multigenerational trauma. Intuitively, I knew this is what killed her. On the eve of her final, sober walk down to their detached garage, she had just completed a 30-day treatment program too.
The following days were a blur. Every time the doorbell rang in the Toledo house, a new gooey baked good or cheesy casserole found its place on the table. I circled the smorgasbord like a vulture. The AA adage, “One drink is too many, and a thousand is never enough,” became my mantra. Viscerally, I knew not to reach for a cookie, let alone a drink. The cascade would be torrential, and I would not survive.
Instead, I listened to my remaining aunt and uncle, both sober before me and their oldest sister, my mom. They would do anything to have Nancy back with us. She was not alone. We loved her. We love Nancy. We would have held her hand for as long as it took. As long as it took for her to feel it. Our love.
Nancy was already gone. But I was still there.
I am here.
Nancy’s spirit continues to guide me back to my seat inside the 12-step rooms. I’ve been clean and sober for over 37 years with the wisdom and support of thousands in our fellowship. The biggest gift of recovery is taking personal responsibility and accountability for my healing and sobriety. I have, and continue to do, the work necessary to be safe from the ravages of alcohol. To live safely inside my own skin. To keep the illness of alcoholism dormant. To heal family patterns, coping mechanisms, and behaviors that are no longer needed for survival. I can feel and tolerate the joys and sorrows of being human.
While there are ostensibly much sexier adjectives than “steady,” it is the one that fuels almost anything lasting, most important for me, sobriety.
— Julie Thorne Engels