What Is My Fault?

What had the power to take me against my will? Was it 100% the drug that is alcohol that caused my addiction? Was it 70% alcohol and 30% the perfect storm of risk factors? Or was some weakness of mine, a lack of moral strength, an irresponsibility, a fatal flaw a factor, too? Was it 60% the drug’s addictive power, 30% the set-up, and 10% me, my inadequate self?

Even if only 1% was my fault, what kind of person would let an addiction to alcohol happen to her? What kind of self is that?

“Happened” is an interesting verb, isn’t it? Are addicts hapless victims? Or does an addict play a role in her own demise?

If we never ingest, we never become addicts.

A tragic number of addicts were born to addicted mothers or were given drugs or alcohol to quiet them as babies or toddlers or to amuse their drinking and using caregivers. The choice about whether or not to ingest was made for them.

A significant number find experimentation becomes addiction almost immediately, either upon first use or early in use.

What about the rest of us? We chose to ingest. We chose to ingest again. And at some point – and I have shared that I cannot recall any consciousness of that moment – I was unable to not choose to not drink every evening. Then, even if I vowed to myself or others to have only a glass or two of wine, I drank more, then more than that.

“Not” is an interesting adverb, isn’t it? How could an intelligent, well-educated, adult woman “not” stop herself from drinking? Put a “do” in front of that “not,” Anne, and just “do not,” right? I was able to “do not” for a few three-day stretches in the last six months of my drinking. But on the fourth day, in a state of writhing internal distress that I experienced as unbearable, I poured a glass of wine. Then another.

Taking a hard look back, I think I might have been somewhat conscious that I was choosing relief over pain. But the cost-to-benefit analysis felt instantaneous and relief was the heavy winner every time.

I struggle with the concept of self. I remember the self I was in 2006, the events of 2007 that overwhelmed me, the progressive drinking, the day I drove the chaff of my existence – no mind, no heart – to a support group meeting, drinking the rest of the wine that night, driving myself to a meeting again on December 28, 2012, not taking a drink that night, and the inner hurricane that hit.

The question of fault plagues me because my next step seems dependent upon the answer. I have done tireless research; I know the predisposing factors, the potential perfect storm that might have transformed my social drinking to addictive drinking. But it’s not cause-and-effect. Drinking doesn’t lead to addiction to alcohol. But in me, it did.

Why?

I need to know what was my fault so I can fix it. If I don’t fix what was wrong that led me to think being under the influence of drink felt better than being under the influence of life, am I not destined to relapse? I have an 80-90% chance of relapsing anyway. Even if I don’t relapse, am I not still living with that fatal flaw? Is it not still harming me and those I love, have loved, and may love? It seems imperative that I identify it and remedy it or I will damage myself and others again.

When I look back at my half century on the planet, I see trying. I was on the phone with my mother just after her heart attack in 2005. Weepy with relief that she was alive, I expressed my eternal, devoted love for her the best I could: “I have tried my whole life to please you.”

“No, you haven’t,” she said.

I can’t believe a lifetime of trying has ended me up here.

Who am I, who do I get to be, what is my value having become addicted to alcohol? I want to write a eulogy for my 2006 self, the self that existed before the hard events of 2007. She was can-do. And then she could not. She, as a concept, has no meaning for me as a recovering alcoholic in 2014.

I was at my sister’s and brother-in-law’s for a lovely dinner two nights ago. The inner hurricane of recovering finally calmed to a heavy chop at about 13 months and I’ve been able to be aware of thoughts and feelings other than suffering. Dawning awareness of selfhood or the lack thereof has been appalling. I had no idea who was sitting in my body at the dinner table with family and friends at dinner. I was so glad and relieved to hear of their full and rich lives because I could think of nothing to offer the conversation. Only that I am still trying.

Trying at what? With what? Why? Have I become too flawed to matter? Today I am 17 months sober. I do not know the answers to these questions.