Brian and I
saw the film Manchester by the Sea
last night, and as we were leaving this powerful movie about grief, he asked if
I would recommend it to the alcoholics and addicts I work with. After all, he said, it’s all about
addiction. His opinion baffled me
because the movie didn’t strike me as being about addiction. And then we
dissected it: the main character drank steadily, got into fights in bars, and
the heartache at the center of the film was created by his drinking.
How had I
missed that? What picture of addiction
do I have that precluded the centrality of it in this richly layered film? The only thing I’ve come up with is that I’m
now so used to stories about much harsher drug use that something as benign as
8 beers in 7 hours doesn’t strike me as excessive. I’ve come to normalize this level of use
because, after all, he was functioning. Or was he? The main character had no
access to his emotions, no way to express them except when they erupted in
violence.
That’s what addiction does—cuts us off from the very thing that helps
us reach for others, ask for help, and make a human connection.
I’ve been
very interested in ambient addictions lately, the subtle, socially-sanctioned
habits and activities that nonetheless keep me buffered from what’s going on
internally and often in the world. I’ve
been noticing all the little ways I distract myself from reality to feel a bit
more comfortable. Lately it’s been
novel-reading, and while I’ve read some wonderful books, I’ve put down a couple mid-way after realizing
they aren’t good enough to take up my time.
I’d be better served phoning a friend, taking a walk, or simply looking
out the window than filling my head with mediocre words and stories. But first I have to let go of the need to be productive, even in my spare time.
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