*If you suffer from alcoholism and choose to read this, please do not be offended. It is understood that alcoholism is a disease caused by both environmental and genetic factors and this is not mean to target anyone. This is a fictional piece meant to be thought-provoking.*
"Hi. My name is Greg."
"Hi, Greg!"
"And I'm an alcoholic." The room remains silent. Greg continues speaking. "Well, I guess I'm not anymore... at least I don't think I am. Or maybe I am. Maybe that's not a choice for me to make. Maybe part of the punishment for letting yourself dive so deeply into addiction is that... I mean, I don't really know at what point you can claim you're not an alcoholic if you can... Even if the addiction is repressed, even if you haven't taken a sip in years... But I still think about it. And I guess that's what addiction is. The fact that I will always think about it. It's never gone... not fully. Just repressed. So, maybe the label just stains us and no matter how much we try to get clean, we can't remove it... not fully. It's just who we are now..."
The room shifts uncomfortably. A few people sitting in the front row look down at their feet, unable or unwilling to make eye contact with Greg anymore.
Greg looks down at the podium and whispers under his breath, half to himself and half hoping that some few in the crowd would hear him. "I mean... I don't want to be labeled an alcoholic forever." He quiets down for a moment. He crumples a piece of paper he's been holding in his hands, calming himself by the sound of it crinkling. Written on the paper are a few points he was planning to make in his speech but it seems he has abandoned the premeditated sense of order. It feels sickly to stand there and list out all of the great things he's been doing to keep the addiction away, to pretend that he feels amazing and that his life has really turned around for the better. It has, but it also hasn't. There is still that lurking mushy feeling like sludge that always sits at the bottom of his gut, reminding him that there is a piece of him that will never be satisfied unless he gives in. He will never be whole unless he gives in. "Anyways, yeah. My name is Greg and I'm an alcoholic but I'm also ninety days sober. I just got my chip actually. A couple days ago." A few people in the crowd weakly clap in congratulations. "Thank you, thank you," Greg's voice cracks. "It's been a long three months and however many days in change, but I'm happy I've gotten through it... so far. Although I can't say it hasn't been difficult. Near impossible sometimes. I think a lot about the person I was before I got sober. I try not to think of that person as me, more of like an alter ego completely separate from me. It looks like me but it doesn't talk like me, not the way I talk now. It's all slurred and fucked up... but it's always smiling. I thought that was a good way to cope with it. To kind of disassociate myself from that past. But I think I only made it worse because now I gave that part of me a voice. The ability to tempt me, or at least try to. Or maybe that's really just me and I'm trying to place the blame for my weakness onto something else. But that part of me doesn't feel like me. It really doesn't. And when I see it in my dreams or hear it in my head, it really does seem like another being. I know I sound crazy and I'm probably not making much sense... we've all got our demons and here I am standing in front of all of you talking about mine like it's something none of you could possibly understand. But I'm just trying to cope. I'm trying to live a new lifestyle of honesty because I'm scared if I slip up and lie, my demon will get me." Greg's voice catches and cracks into silence. He looks around the room. The crowd of people are now all staring at the floor or the walls, avoiding eye contact. Even the meeting leader is pretending to write something down on her clipboard but he can see from where he is standing that the pen in her hand isn't clicked.
No one is looking at him now. No one except for one man sitting in the back right corner of the room. The man is staring at him intently, sitting upright in his chair with his shoulders firmly pushed down. Greg thinks he must be a newbie with all of that muted hope in his eyes. He seems to be mouthing Greg's words back to himself.
Greg sighs, bites his tongue, and swallows the saliva that seeps into his mouth from his glands - a trick he's taught himself to do whenever he is fiending for a drink. His tongue is double the size that it used to be.
"Here's to ninety days, three months, however you want to measure it, of sobriety." Greg's voice becomes significantly drier. "Thanks for listening." He is about to raise his hand in cheers but decides against it and walks off the stage.
There is another round of weak applause. The individuals in the room are able to look back up at the stage again. The meeting leader is the last to stop clapping and she turns around to address the crowd.
"Thank you for that Greg." She sounds less than grateful. "That was truly eye-opening." The same sentence she says after every speech. Greg rolls his eyes into the back of his head as she invites another person up on stage. "Would anyone else like to share before we end the night?"
One hand instantly spits out into the air. It belongs to the man sitting in the back right corner of the room who was so intently listening to Greg, rolling his words around his tongue.
"Go ahead," the meeting leader says and motions toward the stage.
The man gets up from his seat and walks on stage. He stands behind the podium, no paper in his hand. Without a nervous twitch or an awkward chuckle, he begins speaking.
"Hello. My name is Pete. Pete Carter Fell."
A few confused voices answer, "Hi, Pete."
"I probably look different to those of you who know me, probably much different. And that is because I am. I am very different. I have changed. For the better."
The room once again shifts uncomfortably but they keep their eyes on Pete. Greg watches him from his seat in the back left side of the room. He remembers Pete having different colored hair... and wasn't he shorter? His voice sounds different, too.
"I don't know how many days sober I was before my incident but as of today, I am one week sober, which is better than zero days sober which is what I was seven days ago. Seven days ago when I had my incident."
The members of the audience lean forward toward the stage after hearing the word incident - their ears perked and attentive. They are more and more interested as Pete continues to speak.
"Yes, my incident. My horrible incident. I see all of your eyes have lit up at the word. You all understand that incident means failure and you all seek to find someone who has failed more than you so you can place yourself on a pedestal that is that much higher. But talking about my incident isn't meant to serve you the justification you seek for your actions. It isn't meant to make you feel better about that sip you took the other day just to quench your thirst or that time you failed someone you loved by getting too wasted to be kind to them. No, no. This is an eye-opener. This is a wakeup call. This is what some of you come up to this podium to say but are too afraid to go through with because you know doing so might put you at the bottom of this food chain you've created here. This food chain of ignorance. The ones at the top of the chain are the most ignorant, and therefore the most blissful. And anyone who tries to damage their ignorance is immediately a threat and shoved down to the bottom. They are ignored or belittled and that is how this chain survives.
But today, I am here to break that chain.
You see, I would like to comment on that man's insightful dialogue back there," Pete says, pointing to Greg. Greg bites his tongue and sinks into his chair as he makes direct eye contact. "He has a point that all of you are too shameful to pay any attention to. I saw as you all turned your eyes away while he spoke. I watched you all squirm uncomfortably in your seats. Don't turn your eyes away now. Not from me. It's too late for that trick. I already know how non-confrontational you all are, so keep your eyes upon me and face the truth. Listen to what I have to say with the same attention you would give a bottle of whiskey. You ma'am, in the second row. I see you trying to look away. But you were so interested moments ago about my incident. Please keep your eye up here for the remainder of my speech. It's rude not to pay attention."
The room is taken hostage without any need for a weapon. Just the man's words. There is an inexplicable fear that keeps everyone arrested in their seats because they can sense something strange in this Pete. Something deep and dark and threatening.
"Yes. Non-confrontational. That is a good word for it. After all, why do you drink yourself into oblivion if not for the sweet bliss of avoidance? You don't want to come face to face with what you've done or the issues in your life so you drink to avoid your problems or to deal with them while your mind floats above your conscious. When you're intoxicated, it is not really you who is dealing with the issue. Not truly. But that other you, that version of you that you release, your 'coping' mechanism, your demon, is no better. In fact, that you is much worse for both yourself and society. A poison, if irony could be any more ironic. Yet you release that poison into the world anyway.
So, here I stand. Before a group of non-confrontational people who are so paralyzed by their fear that they let their demons take them over to deal with their lives. To deal with what every person who exists outside of this room is strong enough to deal with. Everyone beyond these walls is capable, except for this select group in here. Like there is some fragment of your DNA missing that pains you so much you must snuff it out with a drink. It's sad, really.
But I suppose I can't speak for each and every one of you. Who knows, maybe some of you are true victims of your condition. Although, I can't imagine that being many of you. No. It wouldn't be fair to speak for you all. To be your voice. Three voices for you would be a crowd." Pete chuckles to himself, having cracked his miserable joke. "Even so, you being here means that you cannot face your addiction head on. You need a crutch. You need this... chain to aid you. But chains weigh, my fellows. They weigh and drag you down deeper and deeper until you have joined the community of others who have been dragged down to the bottom where the darkness makes you lose sight of the light. I know because that is where I lived, in blissful blindness.
Still, I can only speak for myself. I can only speak for my actions and the consequences of those actions. I can only speak for the fact that I've done nothing to fix my problems besides be a link in this chain and feel as though I am doing a service to myself for it. Despite the reality of my life. Sure, I can blame it on my demon but that would be delusional, wouldn't it? ...Wouldn't it?!"
A few people feel threatened to nod. The crowd looks like a display case for petrified bobble-heads in a toy store.
"That's what I thought." He takes a moment to pause, letting the room settle into stillness. He takes a deep breath like he's inhaling the tension. "So, we've already established that we drink. We've already established that we are all alcoholics with a phobia for confrontation. You've now been assaulted by reality, a necessity that I believe is long overdue. And now what? You forget about it all the moment you go home? You drown your self-hatred in liquor? You try to 'cope'? Where's your demon now to protect you? Where's your chain to support you?" He scans the crowd. The room is humid from the sweat. "Ah, you are all beginning to realize it is all a fabrication, aren't you? You are beginning to feel the discomfort? You are sitting in your chairs feeling like a pile of sludge in human form? Good. Learn to deal with it. Learn to deal with the discomfort and confrontation everyone must deal with. You are not special. Your problems are not unique. Your cross is no heavier than another's. You are just weak."
He takes a pause once again. The room struggles in the silence, a long snake named Reality coiling around their throats. He watches as they suffocate. When he finally does speak, he does so with that attitude of muted hope Greg had seen in him before.
"Hi, my name is Pete. Pete Carter Fell. And I am an alcoholic."
The crowd does not respond.
"I am seven days sober since my incident. One week, which is better than zero which I was when I had my incident. Yes, my horrible, terrible, god awful incident. You see, I have come here to admit I have a problem. To atone for my actions. I have probably stood at this podium before to acknowledge it in front of you all and list all the ways I would eradicate my demon. I probably sounded very convincing as well. Maybe even lied about how well I was doing, letting you all believe my road to recovery was a smooth one. But just like your delusions, that was a fabrication. You see, until seven days ago, one week, which is when I had my incident, I was consumed by my demon. Consumed enough that I let it fully take me over. There was never a moment when I wasn't my demon, even during those critical times when reality was necessary.
What are those times, you may ask? Why, they could be when you are giving a presentation, performing surgery, flying an airplane. Or something as simple as driving. Yes, driving. We see it all the time. Don't drink and drive. Don't allow your demon to take over and drive. And if you aren't desensitized enough to see it, you probably wonder why the message is splattered across every billboard and road sign we see. You may ask yourself 'how often could this really be happening? How often could someone be stupid enough to let their demon take the wheel?' Well, ladies and gentleman, I am here to tell you it is more often than not. It happens every day, you just don't see it.
You see, my name is Pete. Pete Carter Fell. And I am only seven days sober. Seven days sober since my incident. That is only one week, which is better than zero which is what I was when I had my incident. My horrible, vile, criminal incident. And if you think that your demons are bad, I am here to tell you that you will never come near to the petrifying terror that chills you to your very core until you are haunted by those who your demon has affected. I'm not talking about the fight you had with your girlfriend or wife that left you sleeping on the couch or that time you made that cashier cry because your demon was irritated that there were no more booze left in the store. I'm not talking about that time you raised your voice at your boss or slapped your friend. I'm talking about irreversible, irreparable damage.
My name is Pete. Pete Carter Fell. I am seven days sober, one week sober, which is better than zero days sober which is what I was when I killed a little girl. Which is what I was when I let my demon take the wheel and irreversibly, irreparably damaged a life forever. My name is Pete. Pete Carter Fell and I was so soaked in regret that I begged and prayed for some form of redemption. My name is Pete. Pete Carter Fell and I had written a note that I left on my kitchen counter to attend this meeting and atone for my sins. My name is Pete. Pete Carter Fell and I am an alcoholic who has allowed myself to be consumed by my demon. My name is Pete. Pete Carter Fell and I hoped that I could make things right. That I could finally open my eyes to my actions and see the damage my demon does. But, my name is Pete. Pete Carter Fell and I have been consumed by my demon to the point where there is no restitution.
At least, this is what I hope Pete Carter Fell would say if he were alive right now. If I hadn't snuck into his home and killed him seven days ago, one week ago. The day of his terrible, horrible incident.
You see, Pete Carter Fell is seven days sober, one week sober which is better than zero which is what he was when he killed my little girl. My little sweet baby girl. I watched him run her over with his car and was horrified to hold her limp body in my arms as he swerved away at full speed. Seven days, one week, that Pete Carter Fell killed my little girl, and seven days, one week, that Pete Carter Fell has been sober. Seven days, one week since I stabbed him in his sleep. Since I vanquished the demon. But I can say with confidence that from that day, the day of his incident, Pete Carter Fell will remain sober for all of eternity."