Once, when I was isolating on a summer’s evening a few years back, the world came to me in the coolest way imaginable. Twelve British firemen, in full life-saving regalia, smelling of smoke and manliness (a word made-up on the spot: testosterrific), banged on my door. And I didn’t even have to set a fire!
What I had been doing was sitting on my futon in South-West London, watching BBC2 and inhaling a Dr. Oetker’s Pizza Margarita before getting my drink on. All was well, or as good as things got back then. Suddenly the fire alarm went off like an ear-curdling shriek reminiscent of Maria Callas at the gates of Hell. There was no fire, just the alarm’s endless scream. A few minutes later, my week-long isolation was broken by a testosterone brigade. One stocky beauty strode into my studio flat, cut off the alarm’s apocalyptic scream with a twist of his thick wrist, and looked around. Then he nodded with understanding at the pizza remains on my coffee table.
“It’s rough, on yer own at the bank holiday weekend.” He fixed bright blue eyes on me. “Fancy a pint tomorrow? Down by the river?” The scent of smoke from selfless rescues clung to his uniform; the eyes were bright, the face ruddy. I hadn’t spoken to anyone in a week, not in any substantial or truly human way. The natural, immediate answer to his invitation flew from my lips. “No thanks.”
It’s not difficult to recall my thought process at that moment. It’s too much effort: the awkward chatting, the lies I’ll tell and the eventual goddamn heartache once he discovers I’m a lush. And then the mac-daddy rumination at the heart of all depressives: And what’s the point, anyway?
I actually saved that man some trouble and time that day. I was no longer capable of prioritizing, or pretending to prioritize, a human being over vodka. I didn’t have to worry about that stuff with Dr. Oetker’s frozen pizza. My only concern was consuming mindlessly then drinking excessively before the clenching anxiety came over me. And the anxiety was an endless loop of wondering what had happened to me, when it would end, and how the hell I would ever get out of it and re-join the living, those people with tough skin, jobs, seemingly buoyant optimism, mortgages, babies, paid loans and weird unfathomable confidence that something terrible wasn’t going to happen at any minute. Which it was, I knew.
Dread hung over me like a rain-filled tarp. And I could only get some respite when I was drinking. Of course, booze was the toxic drip that landed me there in the first place, alone in an apartment with four pieces of furniture and a bunch of books.
I hadn’t always been like this, I thought. But in a way I had.
The first time I refused an invitation so I could instead stay home and drink was in my very early 20s. India was a fellow waitress; she was cool and funny, she wanted to go see a band. I liked her. But I was on a rigorous diet, and she might want to eat. Plus, I had everything I wanted at home: Booze and smokes and books. Also, at the back of my mind I wondered if she was too cool—maybe I’d bore her. Perfectionism plus rigidity, multiplied by insecurities. Then the big minus of knowing I’d want to drink more than India would.
A final addition was a big dollop of selfishness; I simply couldn’t be bothered to make even the most minimal of efforts.
My tendency to isolate continues well after I’ve quit booze. Sometimes I worry it’s permanent, that addiction altered my character as profoundly as an ocean’s surf changes glass.
I just assumed in recovery I’d go back to how I was before: mistrustful—but ready to engage. Yes, I was occasionally depressed—but still capable of bright flares of excitement and creativity, an internal dancing feeling where I had to go outside and run just to release a leaping sense of joy.
That would come back on its own, right? No need to worry? When we quit drinking or using, many of us have bigger goals than just learning how to hang again. The only thing I had to fear was booze itself, and once I’d 86’d that, the world would be my oyster. I had to clear that goddamn wreckage away by facing the big issues that clouded my world. First, obviously, was “TNT”—teeth n’ taxes. With advice and help from the rooms, I walked through those twin terrors. Then the whammy of dealing with the student loan people, of needing to get a job, of chipping away at the credit cards that had launched my escape to England. It was all unnerving, and I soothed the long hours of anxiety by eating huge woks of stir-fry and watching re-runs until early in the morning.
And time began to pass, slowly at first. Eight plus years later, there have been big changes. I’ve written a book, restored my credit rating, bought an apartment in Manhattan, watched my mother’s addiction coil snakelike around her and then crush her spirit and her health. While not using myself, I’ve dutifully tried to be of service to her and my family. But that yearning to isolate? It remains as seductive as it was in my vodka days.
Until recently, I hadn’t seen how thoroughly I’ve positioned my life around the need to isolate, or how very many ways there are to do it. That diet thing I mentioned before? It’s a perfect example, because if you neither drink nor eat with people, you’re already halfway home and streaming Fargo. Also, I’m a master at scheduling “self-care” (which is good, right?) so I have to leave my home meeting for Saturday morning acupuncture so I can’t go out for breakfast. There’s eating at my work desk instead of the lovely communal kitchen overviewing Chelsea. Oh, and there’s turning my phone off and conveniently “forgetting” to turn it back on.
Now, I don’t do these things every day, or even every week.
But oh, how I’d like to.
You can pick up isolating tricks in meetings, too. I heard a woman talk about cancelling a date because she found a small cut on her bichon-frisee’s foot and she felt he needed her that night. Men who avoid invites from women by automatically saying they’ve got to watch the game? Guess what, there’s always a game. Pretty soon these folks end up never having to worry about bothersome things like sex or restaurant dinners.
So it’s big, this isolating thing. It’s easy and sweetly seductive and encouraged by a culture that deems ordering in a hot-dog-crust pizza while streaming Zombie shows an enviable reward for a week’s hard work. You certainly don’t need to be an ex-addict to indulge.
As for me, I’ve decided it’s time to address my isolating issue and instigate some set-in-stone rules. With these rules comes a built-in acceptance of pending discomfort. The rules are as follows: I have to accept all party and speaking invitations. I have to go out at least two nights a week. I must re-schedule acupuncture for later in the day, and get back to my old meetings, where people know me. And I also have to dine with a neighbor whenever the opportunity arises.
I’ll have to retrain my brain to think, “Why not?” instead of “Hell no.” Not easy. But I don’t want my world to shrink when I’ve worked so hard to expand its possibilities. And because, if I ever encounter a flurry of British-accented firefighters again, the words I want to fly, naturally and immediately, out of my mouth are, “Yes, please.”
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