Me, in his office: defensive, insecure. Him behind his desk: Disapproving, judgmental.
“You’ll quit drinking,” he says. Not a suggestion, not a request. A declaration. An intervention.
“I’m only here for my meds, my antidepressants.” Medication management, no prescription without a discussion.
Power of suggestion? Voodoo? A good read of character? Yes, he was right. Thirty months: Dry. Sober. Abstained.
Me (once, not so long ago): “I can’t trust people who don’t drink. Coffee in the morning, cocktails at night. The natural order of things. Non-drinkers have something to hide.”
Susan: “Newcastle Brown Ale.” To me: “Is this OK? Does my beer bum you out?”
Me: “Club soda with lime.” My response: “Why should my problem spoil your meal?”
After dinner, I’m the one who’s driving. This still surprises me. I have nothing to hide.
~ ~ ~
Alcohol: The lubricant of my relationships. Reduces the friction of forced communication. Unsticks the cogs for flowing conversation. Untoxicated, oxidated. The machinery grinds to a halt.