Alcoholism doesn’t take vacations, not even in the Marvelous City – 05/09/2023 – Vida de Alcoólatra

After almost two years of recovery, I went to spend some time in Rio de Janeiro with my best friend. Rio has always been a magical place for me, the city where many of the first things happened to me — I’ve already lost myself in Carnival, I’ve already fallen in love, I’ve experienced cinematographic moments and many other catastrophic ones (perhaps the worst of my illness). But this time it would be different.

Tereza and I agreed to spend a little vacation in the Marvelous City. We would stay at the apartment of a friend of her brother who had gone on a trip. I went first, alone, Tereza would arrive two days later. I left São Paulo with an incredible sense of freedom. A great alcoholic fellow from Rio warned me: look, Alice, if you press on, there’s the group there. I sneered. Group? On my vacation? Imagine, it wouldn’t be necessary. Two years without any alcohol in my mouth, there was no more danger, I thought.

I disembarked and went straight to the apartment that was waiting for me. I arrived at the entrance after savoring the landscape, the classic natural settings mixed with the always pleasant climate. The day was beautiful, the blue sky and the sun made me sure that I WAS THE HAPPIEST PERSON IN THE WORLD! Wow! Who could take away that feeling so good?

I opened the door to Antonio’s apartment with immense joy. The building was in Glória and the view of Aterro do Flamengo was breathtaking. (I know it sounds like a cliché, but it really takes your breath away!). I admired that gorgeous-perfect scenery sighing with happiness and when I turned to lock the door I came across something else as disconcerting as that landscape: the bar of the house! At that moment, my previously so good feeling turned into something sooooo weird. I felt the heat of those distillates that in so many moments had already gone down my throat. Those many bottles looked at me and called me: What’s up? Let’s Chill? PANIC. I didn’t leave the place. People riding bicycles on Aterro do Flamengo, smiling, were erased by the darkness of other times.

Alcohol paraded before my eyes, transparent or colored, copper, light blue, blood red. So many colors in that inoffensive bar—a table with drinks and the paralysis of any and all sense of well-being. I believe I stood there for about five minutes looking at the bottles, and then I started to feel terribly afraid and wanted to cry. The silence of those bottles staring back at me was terrifying. Despite the dark feeling that had taken over me, I entered the apartment and pretended to be natural. Okay, off I went to put away the cheese and water I had bought on the way. I opened the refrigerator: it was full of beer. Damn, how had Antonio done that to me?

Look at the size of my disease. Antônio had prepared the apartment for the two of us, he had left flowers at the entrance, clean bed linen, towels and everything else. And I just felt angry and thought, selfishly, that he could have taken those bottles away so I wouldn’t look bad. Had Tereza not told him? It didn’t occur to me that he might be unaware of my condition… Well, that kind of thinking was common enough. How dare people drink in front of me? How did they keep teasing ME? It took me a while to stop haunting myself with this kind of selfish thinking, but every now and then it still pops up.

Anyway, I feared not mastering the fear of transforming that promise of happiness into yet another stay in hell. I had tried to stop drinking numerous times before joining an AA class, and I would relapse every time. But now the big difference was the people, the strength of the group and the assurance that I would never feel alone again. I remembered Oscar, the guy from Rio who had told me about the room and went to see his WhatsApp with the information. A meeting would start in thirty minutes and I was ten minutes away on foot! I didn’t even unpack, I didn’t go to the beach, I didn’t go cycling, nothing. I ran blindly towards the group. Crying and with my heart racing during the fifteen minutes that separated me from mine. I was welcomed with smiles and hugs, I felt like I was crossing the finish line of a marathon and finally being able to rest.

Yes, it was the finish line of peace. The comparison to a marathon is no exaggeration. That’s what the fight against alcoholism is all about, having to dodge the traps that are everywhere. From that day forward, I never took time off from my recovery. Being on vacation is great, but my illness calls for constant care. You couldn’t think that I would travel to Rio without having to face my alcoholism. I learned.

I spent the two days without Tereza going to four AA meetings. Overkill? No, never, never. Four meetings correspond to eight hours of room interspersed with many good conversations and fun meetings. My day goes a long way if I don’t drink and my high was there. What wouldn’t I have done with eight hours of active alcoholism in forty-degree Rio?

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