Abstaining and observing
Not drinking alcohol makes it easier to be an observer than a participant
I haven’t had a drink for 18 months. In that time, I’ve thought a lot about what it means to not drink, or if it means anything at all. When I listen to stories of people in AA (I don’t go to meetings, but I have listened to dozens of AA speakers via SoberCast), it’s clear that complete abstinence is at the heart of the AA philosophy, based on the idea that alcoholism is a binary disease (you have it or you don’t) rather than a spectrum, which is the view taken by the contemporary medical community. But, since I stopped drinking, I have met lots of non-drinking people for whom it doesn’t seem to be a big deal at all. For some, sobriety seems to be completely inconsequential. These people are not in recovery. They don’t talk about the fact that they don’t drink, not because it’s a difficult topic but simply because it isn’t on their minds. Maybe they never drank. Maybe they just don’t like alcohol. Perhaps they have a glass of champagne on New Years Eve and other than that it never occurs to them to drink.
I’ve realized recently that I’ve been focused on this binary idea of drinking versus not drinking (I have to drink every day or not at all). @Chelsey recently pointed me to an article by Jesse Meadows in which Jesse talks about a different idea - using alcohol intentionally as a tool to enable participation in the social arena (a topic I’ve written about in the past). Jesse is autistic, and the idea is compelling from an autistic perspective. When I found out I was autistic, I decided to stop drinking because I realized that as an autistic person the reason I drank was to “cope” with the expectations of neurotypical life. I had discovered during the pandemic that my preferred way of “coping” was simply to avoid the situations where I normally found I needed alcohol (most social gatherings with more than one or two other people). It was relatively easy for me to stop drinking because I wasn’t doing anything that made me truly feel the need to drink (I had cravings during my withdrawal time, and occasionally still do, but nothing insurmountable). I have been quite happy for the past three years simply not to participate, and it was wonderful when I had an excuse that everybody readily understood (covid).
Now that nobody is following any kind of pandemic restrictions, I find it more and more awkward to decline invitations or not show up at gatherings. At the same time, I’m very uncomfortable when I’m in social situations, especially without masks (the literal kind). For me, wearing a mask isn’t about protecting myself from disease anymore, it’s about having a refuge to hide behind, a source of protection from exposure to other people. Wearing a mask feels a little like wearing my coat inside - I don’t take it off if I don’t plan to stay. I’m forever sending the signals that I’m just stopping by, insulated from deep contact, unavailable for prolonged conversation. And who wants to talk with someone wearing a mask? We all did it for a while, but we have lost patience with the muffled sounds, the hard to discern words, the loss of facial queues. I have become used to being the only mask wearer in the bookstore, or the grocery store, or at school pickup. When I see a fellow masked person I want to smile knowingly, or nod, or exchange some sign of mutual understanding. But other mask wearers are just as leery as I am of human approach, and tend not to make eye contact.
Jesse’s article has made me think, again: should I try to use alcohol intentionally in social situations rather than avoid those situations altogether (replacing my literal mask with a metaphorical one)? I did it for decades without realizing that’s what I was doing. It’s tempting to return to that way of being, to rediscover the anticipation and excitement of gathering with people to imbibe, relax, and enjoy the easy fun of talking about meaningless things, laughing even, with the sensations of alcohol taking away the voice in my head that is trying to roll my eyes and encourage me to go read a book or do something more “productive” than flittering away the hours with smalltalk and booze. But the other voice in my head, the one that purports to be wiser, knows that that would be the wrong road to go down.
It’s not as if every occasion with alcohol is filled with superficial conversation and pretense. Some of the most profound and meaningful discussions I’ve had in my life have occurred over a drink or two. So many connections, so much bonding, such heartfelt interaction. Foundational memories, lasting moments - so much good, it would seem, in my life, has come with drinking. I’ve also had some good conversations over coffee, or tea, or even just walking around a lake, consuming nothing at all. But those often feel incomplete, or somehow less significant. A drink is a destination, or perhaps a punctuation. Not having a drink feels like not finishing a sentence, or like seeing an old friend for the first time in years and just saying “hi” but not giving them a hug. Of course, it seems like people don’t really hug anymore the way they used to. We stopped that ritual during the pandemic with everyone but our closest connections and haven’t resumed it fully. Or is it just me who no longer gives and receives hugs?
My family and I went on vacation this week. We drove 15 miles to a suburban hotel that has an enormous indoor water park. Outside, the temperature was stuck at, or below, freezing, and a mix of sleet and snow continually fell from the sky, but inside it was in the 80s, and we were with hundreds of other families enjoying a beach vacation in this strange, artificial, indoor world. It reminded me of a science fiction story where Earth is no longer habitable and cities are contained in giant artificial biospheres. Most people seemed to be having a wonderful time; I was focused on surviving the sensory overload. The noise, the crowds of unmasked people, the echoing sounds of kids completely immersed in the joy of the water. Surprisingly, it wasn’t unpleasant - just intense. I sat in a chair by the wave pool, occasionally catching a glimpse of my wife and daughter swimming by, but mostly caught up in the fascination of watching people - it had been so long since I was around so many other humans. I noticed many parents sipping from large plastic cups of beer or margaritas. I immediately recognized that, in the past, ordering a drink would be exactly the first thing I would do in a place like this, no matter what time of day it was. Drinking a couple of beers would shift me from “how am I going to survive the next few days?” to “let’s do the water slide!”
But I also had another thought. As much as I empathized with the drinking parents, I had no desire to join them. I didn’t think for a second about going to the bar, and no part of me thought that I’d rather be drinking, and fully participating in the abandon of the water park. Instead, I felt confident in the realization that I prefer to sit on the side and watch, appreciating the joy that others are having, observing the people around me, reflecting on the diversity of our society and the ability of an indoor water park at the end of a long, relentless winter, to bring together people from many different races, many different points on the socioeconomic spectrum, from urban centers to small towns, with every kind of tattoo imaginable, stripped to their swimsuits, simply having fun side by side. Not drinking enables me to be an observer, and that is who I really am.