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Rafael

The gymnasium smelled of rubber, laced with the scent of sweaty kids. The overhead lighting was dimmed, save for the few directly over the group of eight seated in a circle.

This was my third meeting, and I had yet to speak. I just didn’t have it in me, but listening to the other stories made me realize how fortunate I was to have experienced this at such a young age.

People spoke about the pain of living without alcohol. The constant struggle to resist latching onto the bottle seemed exhausting. That wasn’t the case with me. My body hadn’t grown so accustomed to the presence of alcohol that it yearned for it constantly. I used it as an awful crutch. I was so grateful that I didn’t wake up every day missing the burn of a first sip. Had I continued using it like I did, that would have been me.

The stories of rock bottom were just unbelievable. People lost their jobs and everything they owned, winding up homeless and living on the streets. Their families turned them away because they knew any help would just go towards the habit.

My heart broke for these people.

One story in particular really struck me. His name was Phil, and he spoke about growing up gay in a conservative area. When he started partying in high school, he went from being the quiet “fag” everyone picked on to a full-blown party animal. He said it felt like a huge step up on the social ladder.

I think he said it as a joke, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how fucked up that was. Destroying oneself was considered preferable to living one’s truth. It got me thinking about Cody and me—how we were still hiding from everyone. Maybe it was time for us to start letting some of our close friends in on the relationship.

“Rafael, would you like to speak tonight?”

Oh, fuck.

No, not at all. I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to do less than that. Then, I remembered Phil’s story. It took a lot of courage to be so honest.

I never discussed all the things that led me to this point. It was clear I was here for a reason.

Time to start yapping, Rafael.

I gave everyone an awkward wave. “Hi. I’m Rafael.”

“Hi, Rafael,” they replied in unison. I’d heard them say “Hi, whoever,” all night, but hearing it directed at me was fucking terrifying.

Oh Jesus. Don’t puke.

I cleared my throat. My leg tapped. The nerves rumbled inside me, but I wanted to do this. I wanted to speak. It was time.

“I’ve been sober for a month. I suffered from alcohol poisoning in August, and I knew it was time…”

The impulse to leave it at that was palpable. Technically, that’s all I needed to do, but I started thinking about Cody sitting in the car outside. Even when he wasn’t in the same room, his love supported me. “I lost my brother in a boating accident when I was fourteen. He was ten.”

“I’m so sorry,” the Chairperson, Sheila, said.

I nodded my thanks. “I started drinking shortly after that. My parents were a mess. M-Mattie was gone and…”

Fuck it was so hard. Just do it. Get it out.

“Mattie was gone. My parents fought endlessly about it. The aftermath of his death felt like a war that never ceased. Every night, they fought, blaming each other. Well, not really blaming each other. My Mom blamed my Dad because he had taken us on the fishing trip…”

Rita, you say these awful things to me as if I don’t already know them. I know I killed Mattie! I fucking know that. I can’t even look at Rafael. I can’t even face him, I’m so ashamed. He shouldn’t have been out there. I know this is my fault, but you continuously saying that is going to kill me. It will.

It was the first time I remembered Hank saying that. Over the years, the fights just blended into one continuous garbled mess of gibberish that tore me to pieces. Sitting there in that gymnasium was the first time I actually remembered what my Dad said during one of the fights.

Dad. I called him Dad.

“Are you okay, Rafael?”

Sheila’s voice shook me back to the present. “Yeah. Sorry.” My hands gripped the sides of the chair. I didn’t want to stop. What else might I remember? “My Dad left after that, and I blamed myself. I blamed myself for my brother’s death. I blamed myself for Dad leaving. I just…hated being me.”

“You were just fourteen,” Sheila added. She was right. I was just fourteen, and Dad couldn’t have known what would happen that day, and Mom couldn’t handle losing a child.

Nobody was really to blame.

“Yeah,” I said. “I didn’t understand. I didn’t realize until recently how much blame I was placing on myself. The alcohol calmed me at first. Then, it helped me fall asleep. Then, it became my lifeline when anything got too much.”

Audible sounds of understanding lingered around me. A lot of people here turned to booze to self-medicate. Facing the pain was too much. Booze was a crutch until it became a trap.

“I used to drink to numb the pain, but I’m realizing now that feeling the pain is the only way to move past it. The alcohol just traps the pain within. It lingers inside because the alcohol stops you from pushing through the pain. You have to do that a lot before it hurts less. It sucks while it’s happening, but, if you drink every time the pain starts, then you’ll never see the other side of it. You never get to process it.”

I did it. I said it all out loud. My body trembled, but I’d never felt lighter.

“Thank you for sharing, Rafael.”

Hank’s words from the past echoed in my mind. Maybe it was time for me to stop pushing Hank away. Maybe it was time for me to let him be Dad again.