The Brethren of my youth defined themselves by “no’s.”
No smoking, no drinking, no gambling, no taking the lord’s name in vain.
No attachment to worldly goods or fun that might lead to sex before marriage.
We were only years beyond no dancing.
Thankfully that stricture had been struck.
We were to follow Christ’s example—and words,
Although that rule raised more questions than it answered.
Jesus loved sinners. He had nothing at all against wine. The Gospels did not demonize joy and play and fun. Fishing was encouraged.
Which made it easy, in graduate school, to accept a glass of spirits from Dr. Govan’s wife, Jane.
Though when I purchased my own bottle to sample the night before my orals, I tripped on a curb coming home from the grocery store. And broke the bottle of wine in my grocery bag. God was, it seemed, reminding me of the rules.
That morality lesson evaporated the next decade: Gettysburg and DC came with the lovely rituals of cocktail hours. With trusted friends. Limits understood. The sweet balance between sober and silly. The marvel of—just for a small while—feeling freer, less obligated, less prudish, less responsible. Rarely if ever edging toward chaotic; dangerous; deadly; malignant.
Which meant that when I hit Montana, I was not ready for the drinking that defines the West.
Which meant, at first, Dave’s six pack of Michelob seemed innocent, easy.
Until, of course, it wasn’t.
Until I was so far out of my element that I became the crazy companion. Governed by terror and panic. Distrust. Disgust.
There were no elegant cocktail conversations.
Just wild swings of anger and maudlin affection.
And I thought—as I’d spent my life thinking: That this wasn’t real. That love should conquer all. That I couldn’t go on. That I couldn’t not go on. That there was–and then there wasn’t–a way out. That there had to be something I could DO! NOW!
We live in a state where drunk driving is the norm. We are the land of Big Skies and Big Drinks. And a reputation as the place where real cowboys can hold their liquor and their loves at the same time. And where our highways sport the white crosses of carnage. Where we rank third in the nation in suicides and drunk driving fatalities. Where the price we pay for our liquid bravado is death.
And the price I paid for applying the force of my will and the absurdities of circular thinking bathed in fear and anger—was its own hysteria. Kansas girl, DC minor civil servant running right up against the disease of alcoholism–animated by the West’s pernicious legends–didn’t fare so well. And certainly didn’t change or help Dave.
I required the educated wisdom of a counselor and the even more apt, understanding, and lived experiences of Al-Anon friends to survive. And finally to thrive.
I had to learn a batch of realities that turn out to be useful–critical in fact–in absolutely every other moment in life: that by force of will we never change another person; that we are utterly powerless over others’ addictions; that we can only forever be responsible for our own actions; that loving people by letting them live the consequences of their choices is the only love we have to offer. That letting go of our infernal wish to change and control others may birth pure magic.
In 1910, tee-totaling temperance Kansas crusader Carrie Nation swept through Montana and realized few converts here. Dave wrote one of his Montana Campfire Tales about her. And by the time he did, he had largely banished six packs and vodka bottles. A great job at the Historical Society, published writing, speaking tours, daughters embedded in our lives, and the elixir of freedom from all the pain and pressure he’d tried to control (courtesy again of a counselor) gave him a lease on life that didn’t require alcohol.
But that’s his story.
Mine was learning the difference between irrational clinging and letting go; between paranoia and peace; between control and caring. And relearning that, or trying to—again and again. Up the North Fork. When Dave traveled. When his health crashed. Yesterday. Today. ©
