Helen St James: "What is it that you want to be so much that you're not?"

Don Birnam: "A Writer. It's silly, isn't it?"

Once upon a time I squirrelled away bottles of wine. I didn't consider my habit kosher, but I managed to rationalize it as not entirely problematic either. If I had the wine out in the open, I'd have to share with my husband, who drank more quickly than I did. Then I would run out too fast, leaving me dry in the middle of the night while he peacefully slept the sleep of the non-addicted. The solution was "our" wine and "my" wine.

I didn't work all that hard at hiding my supply -- I kept it in my bedroom closet or in the guest room closet and bought by the case so I didn't have to shop too often. I convinced myself I was not an alcoholic because I was such an organized drinker, I never drove intoxicated and I didn't black out. Not sloppy, antagonistic, loud or forgetful, I was a respectable little drunk.

"At night, the stuff's a drink. In the morning, it's medicine... It's a terrifying problem, Nat, because if it's dawn, you're dead. The bars are closed and the liquor stores don't open until nine o'clock and you can't last until nine o'clock. Or maybe Sunday, that's the worst. No liquor stores at all, and you guys wouldn't open a bar, not until one o'clock."      ~Don Birnam

As time went on, I relied more on my planning skills, which I dementedly mistook for competence. I required some level of alcohol in my bloodstream 24-hours a day, and figuring out how to manage intake and inventory became trickier. If travelling out of town, I needed to ensure that not only would I have access to wine where I would be, but that more would be waiting when I returned home. It took only one night of suffering brutal withdrawal symptoms for me to never make the mistake of running short again. One would think I would have sought help at that point, but instead I sought more stupified bliss.

"What you don't understand, all of you, is that I've got to know it's around. That I can have it if I need it. I can't be cut off completely. That's the devil. That's what drives you crazy."      ~Don to Nat the bartender

Because I was a lazy hoarder, I never misplaced any wine bottles during my active alcoholic days. Which is good because my husband didn't have to treasure hunt when I shipped off to rehab. Nope, I drank every drop in the house. I'd purchased what I needed for a lovely end-of-inebriation send off and then evenly parceled out my stash to get me to departure time. At 10 a.m. on October 25, 2005, I downed two generous swallows straight from the bottle, then climbed into the car. I shudder to recall myself that night: doing laundry, meticulously organizing the Christmas wishlists and other important paperwork in files for my husband, packing my underwear... and attending to my addiction as a priority task on my to-do list.

My blood/alcohol level was 4.4 at hospital check in, which is listed as 1:20 p.m. on my papers. Even more frightening? I remember more of the check-in process than my poor, frazzled husband, who couldn't remember what he had done with my credit cards and confiscated purse or whether we had signed all the proper paperwork so I could get cash out as needed. I was mentally functional at that intoxication level. I knew that as my normal.

My body and spirit, however, were sickly and starved.

Funnily, the admitting staff put me on bipolar diagnosis watch because I was in a good mood and graciously responded to all their questions and requests. Fact was, I was pleasantly drunk and rehab had been my idea. I'd chosen the facility with knowledgeable help, I was greatly supported by family and friends, and it had been planned over a week in advance. I was glad to be there.

"That's the nice young man who drinks."
    ~One of Don's elderly lady neighbors gossiping with another 

If you haven't already ascertained, I'm watching the movie "The Lost Weekend" for the first time as I write this post. I've been meaning to see the flick for ages, meaning to read the book for even longer. Drunkard Don Birnam, played by Ray Milland, is a typical selfish alcoholic jerk, and, to my chagrin, a wannabe writer to boot. He's tearing a swath of destruction through his relationships with his brother and girlfriend, Helen. He doesn't care about anything or anyone except his obsession with alcohol.

Just now, he's pronounced he is going to lock himself away for the weekend, drink like a madman and truly write that novel he's always meant to write. With Love. To Helen.

Don is an ass.

He is one of my kind, so I'd expect to feel pity, empathy or compassion for him. But I don't. Maybe he reminds me too much of myself once upon a time. I see excuses when I look at him. I don't like him much.

"She knows she's clutching a razor blade, but she won't let go."   ~Don to Nat the bartender about Helen

I have no clue why Helen sticks with Don. He's horrible to her. I can't see what she is getting out of being with him. She seems like a genuinely nice person who would have far better options than Don. Everyone sees this except for Helen. I don't get it.

Don claims that his drinking transforms him and fills him with greatness, boasts that make me want to tape his mouth shut and slap him around. He tells his brother that when he is high, "I'm one of the great ones. I'm Michaelangelo, molding the beard of Moses. I'm Van Gogh painting pure sunlight..." and he's Shakespeare and a whole bunch of other bullshit alcoholic delusions that feed the thirsty beast. Elsewhere in the movie he admits he has yet to finish anything. All he has is foggy memories of some theoretical literary brilliance that he is certain was his golden ticket.

**SPOILERS AHEAD**

I'm not sure I like the movie's ending, which differed from that of the novel. Don's turning point is the re-inspiration of writing about his spiral into alcoholic hell and the oh-too-convenient-miracle return of his hocked typewriter... all tied up nicely by the steadfast love of a good woman showing him the way. While I believe that positive goals, especially chasing achievable dreams, is part of recovery, his turnaround is too abrupt. Don wants to forget the horror of his drunkeness and hallucinations, so Helen tells him to let it all out on paper, to create a Great American Novel because It Will Really Matter (paraphrasing).

His eyes ignite with authorial fire. He snaps out of his relentless (tedious) self-pity tirade. The solution has been with him all along.

"Don't wipe it away, Nat. Let me have my little vicious circle. You know, the circle is the perfect geometric figure. No end, no beginning." 

~Don, waxing poetic on the beauty of condensation and being coaster-free. Besides, who needs to be responsible and clean up drinking glass rings or finish anything tangible in life when you can contemplate transcendent meaning of wet spots on a bar or bottles hidden in light fixtures? Chase that tail, baby! 

Don's sickness is the enmeshment of his drinking and writing. One likely triggers the other. I can't imagine he's having a true epiphany -- he can write! without booze! about booze! -- at this particular point. He'd been on the verge of putting a bullet in his head, doing quite a lot of whining. And then Helen puts a glimmer of "Critical Success" in his sights, and Don can now separate his rye from his prose? Sounds like instant gratification buzz from an imaginary payoff he has yet to achieve. You see, Don has discovered the higher purpose for all he has suffered, his Hemingway moment. 

Then again, despite that Don put out a ciggie in that drink Helen desperately offered to keep him from suicide, could he still be in his vicious circle? Raise you're hand if you're an alcoholic who might have picked out that butt and guzzled away in your boozing heyday? What ashes? A little sediment never hurt anyone.

I know this: that manuscript ain't writing itself. Don's got some real work to do, and I doubt he's up to the task in his current condition, even if he stays sober for the next month or more.

In my experience, the early days of sobriety were best spent creating a daily routine of getting out of bed, washing up, eating healthy, moderately exercising and socializing with other sober folk. I could barely hold down a meal by the time I got to rehab, nevermind challenge myself with storming the publishing world. Dude needs a foundation before he can build on anything, and right now he is slippery wet.

I do, however, like the movie's circular return to the bottle hanging by a rope outside the apartment window from the start of the film, one of Don's many hidden liquor bottles. Maybe that imagery is meant to imply Don's future isn't so resolved. Either way, I think Don needs a swift kick in the rear in the name of reality. And I'd like Helen to run off with Gloria the hooker.

I might have been overly cautious in my baby steps, waiting almost a year before delving into writing. I started with short story workshops then worked myself up to beginning a full novel last November. Next month, I will be four years sober, and my ego is now strong enough to withstand much of the thorough trouncing expected in the publishing industry. Not just by rejections or general criticism (both constructive and not-so-much) from the pros and the peanut gallery, but by my own ruthless standards. With sobriety, I have become kinder to myself ("ruthful?"), but still have high, yet reasonable, expectations. If I had jumped into writing a novel as soon as I quit drinking, I would have unfairly set myself up. Instead, I first relearned how to get a good night's sleep.

The Lost Weekend movie is due for a remake. Not that the original classic has a thing wrong with it. I simply think a retelling for today would be timely and help break the 'altered states = great art fallacy' that still persists. I wonder who should star and if Hollywood would think plain-ole alcoholism is a big enough money draw. It never fails to quasi-amuse me when people act as if getting over addiction or codependency is not enough conflict for plot or character development.

Yep, easy as pie, so easy, everyone's doing it. I always suspected we were all hypochondriacs.

PS: Just a little bone to pick -- except for the one kind of creepy photo above, anyone else think that Ray Milland was a wee bit too put together for an allegedly bottom-scraping drunk, even one whose brother was putting him up? I mean, I hid my mess well most of the time, but we were supposed to be seeing the utter tragedy. Even after he fell down the stairs, he didn't look all banged up. Somehow the scene with the fake bats didn't quite do it for me. It was a little too Scooby Doo. I thought the hospital wet-brains were far more terrifying and real.

Also, what was with all the milk? I mean, aside from showing the passage of time? Were they supposed to be a counterpoint to all the bottles of rye? Maybe they felt heavy-handed because we don't get milk delivery anymore.

"I'm a capitalist. I've got untapped reserves. I'm rich!"
      ~Don,upon remembering the two bottles of booze he hid in his apartment before he passed out the night before