Kudzu Queen

By Tamara Ducote

Since beginning this strange trip called Recovery, I’ve picked up a constant companion. My companion is not one of those imaginary friends that peopled many of our childhood years. This thing is not a friendly force, and it is not imaginary. The specter of Relapse is all too real.

Due to the tremendous damage Relapse is capable of inflicting, one might be tempted to image its embodiment as a pack of ravenous wolves. But I hate to give him that much dignity. In my mind’s eye, Relapse is a ratty little mongrel dog. An ankle-biter. He possesses the tenacity of a terrier, and all the benevolence and goodwill of a mistreated pit bull.

Wherever I go, Relapse trots after me. He is so omnipresent, I sometimes forget he is there. I forget to be vigilant. I drop my mental guard. This is what he is waiting for. Without warning he will lunge forward and sink his nasty little teeth into my Achilles tendon, and I will be back on the martini-go-round with all its attendant misery and chaos.

I would love to banish Relapse from my life once and for all, but my friends in the recovery fellowship tell me this is impossible. The best one can hope for is to manage Relapse. He’ll never, ever really go away. One of my fellowship members picked up a drink after 16 years of sobriety. Evidently, Greyfriars Bobby has nothing on Relapse’s faithfulness.

Relapse is a sneaky little cur, too. It’s not the big things that cause him to bite. I remember sitting in my darkened living room during Hurricane Katrina, listening to giant trees crash down in the yard outside. I passed the time humming and knitting. Either the roof would blow off or it wouldn’t, and there wasn’t anything I could do about either outcome. My main concern was Relapse.

I was prepared to viciously kick him if he came near. He must have known I was ready for him, because he lay quietly in a corner, dozing. I was very proud of myself for managing Relapse during the hurricane and its inconvenient aftermath. I realize now that Relapse was merely biding his time.

He was waiting for the afternoon when I went to a cookout and ran into a convivial group of my old drinking buddies. Relapse jumped up on a chair beside me, and began growling in my ear. The growls meant, “See how much fun these people are having, with their drinks? You can have just one. Nobody from your recovery fellowship will know. There’s nothing wrong with catching a little buzz on a sunny afternoon, among friends. There won’t be any consequences.” And then he adds the kicker, the siren song of magical thinking: “This time will be different.”

An adage states that if you feed a stray dog once, he’s yours. He’s never going away. Since I faithfully fed alcoholism for 25 years, I should not be surprised that Relapse dogs my every step, waiting for me to slip up and hand him another meal. He even appears in my dreams sometimes. I awake from a horrible drinking dream and find Relapse sitting on the foot of the bed, tail wagging happily.

I am very tired of this nasty little mongrel following me around. If I am not paying attention, sometimes he will even climb up onto my back and perch on my shoulder, so he can snarl directly into my ear: “This time will be different.” That phrase rings particularly sweet and seductive when I am hungry, overly tired or upset.

“You’re doing so well with not drinking,” my grandmother says to me on the phone. “I’m very proud of you. But why do you still have to go to all of those meetings?”

I don’t think Grandma would understand the appeal of the meetings. You see, “those meetings” are the only place I’ve found that Relapse cannot follow me. There is some mysterious force that stops him at the door. The meetings offer me sanctuary and respite from this pesky little mongrel.

I am sitting in a morning meeting, surrounded by my fellows. As we say the opening prayer, I peer out the window. And there, lined up patiently on the porch of the meetinghouse, I spy a motley assemblage of mongrel dogs. There is one for each of us recovering alcoholics, and they are doing what they always do. What they do oh-so-well. They are waiting.

Contact Tamara Ducote at TDDucote6@aol.com.

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