He took a deep breath and smiled at me.
‘Long before I was ever introduced to alcohol I was introduced to drugs. My parents were too busy getting drunk themselves to notice. Besides, I was not falling around the place. I seemed happy all the time, so they assumed everything was OK. In hindsight, of course, I realise they wanted to assume that everything was OK so they could get on with their all-night parties. Dad was a silent drunk, the type that goes to the pub very early in the morning, drinks all day, then returns in the early hours, frequently falling asleep on the couch, or on the odd occasion on the kitchen table.’
I swallowed hard.
‘Mam was left at home to supposedly mind the kids. She believes to this day that she drinks to cope with her loneliness, her frustration and boredom. She really believes that it is perfectly normal for her to be as drunk as a skunk. If anyone else had to live with my dad, she reckons they would drink just as much too!’
Everybody laughed, except me.
‘As a child, I often came home to find her asleep on the floor, still in the same clothes as the night before. My younger sister would be trying to put the dinner together. We would pick her up and dump her on the bed and get on with things ourselves. I did all the shopping, housework, and often helped the younger ones with their homework. I often had to ward off debt-collectors from the hall door. One day they even came to take out our furniture.
‘No extra points for figuring out that I was The Caretaker, The Fixer in our home. Being the eldest it was expected of me: I expected it of myself. I thought everybody lived like that. Anyway, there were times when we had nothing to eat at all. Mam would buy her cans and we would have to starve. We would wait up for Dad to come rolling home, as he sometimes brought the odd bag of chips and we would descend upon him like vultures. Then he would attack Mam for not feeding us and she in turn would attack him for not feeding us. One blamed the other and so on. Life continued as normal in between.
‘I suffered in school, of course, often being exhausted from the previous night’s rows and arguments. I failed every exam. I took my first drugs when I was thirteen. I graduated to hard drugs when I was fourteen. By the time I was seventeen I was dealing drugs in the neighbourhood. I thought I was cool and I had a plethora of friends.
‘I didn’t realise how quickly they would disappear when I changed. They were only fair-weather friends. They were no loss.’
I had begun to sit on my hands.
‘I remember one morning, my younger sister was hungry and went to climb up on to a high shelf where she believed there was a can of something to eat. She slipped and fell and broke her leg. My mother beat her for not asking her first. My father beat my mother for beating her. They had a very colourful marriage. Mam was black and blue most of the time. I escaped into drugs. It was a wonderful time. I lived to escape. Had I not had access to something mood-altering I’m not sure I would still be here today. I had to survive it some way.
‘But drugs alone were not enough any more. They weren’t doing what they used to do so I began to drink as well. I started to experience blackouts. Which, by the way, is not the same thing as passing out. A blackout is a period of time for which you can’t remember anything. At first it would be an hour, maybe two. In the end it was full days. I was sick in the morning — often nothing would come up. I would be sweating and shaking. Almost like I had the flu. I didn’t realise I was suffering from withdrawals. I was bloated and pale and constantly tired and depressed,’ Matt continued.
As he spoke, I felt the words pass through my skin and into my blood. They side-stepped my mind and entered my heart. I felt a physical piercing. A pain so great and heavy I thought I would be immobilised for ever. As I sat there in frozen attention, the truth enveloped me. He was talking about little old me. I wasn’t sure if he had gone and written out an account of me deliberately. Was it possible that two stories could be so identical? I thought of David, the can of food, the sweating, the sickness. With each passing second a new set of feelings attacked my being.
Each word thumped me right between the eyes, kicked me between the legs. The truth was being spelled out to me. I was at its mercy and couldn’t move. The picture was crystal clear, almost as if someone had turned on the TV and I was watching a movie about me. The reception had a clarity never experienced before or since.
Matt continued. ‘Of course, by the time I was twenty I had another problem. A much bigger one. I hadn’t enough money to support my drug and drink habits, so I had to take to criminal activities to keep afloat. I started with small things — house break-ins, car theft. It escalated along with my addiction. My younger sister had a small savings account. I got my mother to sign a withdrawal slip while she was drunk. Then I drank it all, every penny of it.’
I winced with pain, remembering David’s beautiful money box. I was not aware of anyone else in the room now. My tears were running freely and quickly. I jumped when I felt someone’s hand slip into mine and squeeze it hard. I looked up — it was Matt’s. He was sitting beside me and continued to talk.
‘Nobody understands the alcoholic like the alcoholic does himself. And yet the alcoholic is the last person in the world to understand what is actually happening to him. People do not realise that an alcoholic is suffering too. All anybody sees is the destruction and pain that they are causing to those around them. The alcoholic is not a bad person. He is a sick individual who needs to be treated for his illness, like any other illness. You can’t treat a broken leg with a Band Aid, can you? Once I understood what was wrong with me, I was able to come to terms with it, and then set about changing it. Not without a great deal of hard work, time and excruciating pain.’
Someone handed me a piece of tissue. I realised my whole body had begun to shake and shudder. No matter how much I wanted to stop crying, the tears just kept right on coming. I had gone past caring. It was the first time ever that I caught a glimpse of myself through someone else’s eyes. I was grieving a thousand deaths. I was feeling twenty years of loss. I was experiencing the slap of rejection. I was understanding compassion. I was in the midst of humility. The presence of God. I stood in the centre of my own being, as the life I had led swirled around me like a tornado.
Every pore, blood vessel and hair strand felt vulnerable to the touch. I was exposed and naked. The storm kept battering away, until the house that Jack built was blown to bits and dispersed in the wind. All that remained was an empty space, a drenched tissue and Matt’s hand.
I felt someone playing with my hair. My head was turned sideways, inwards. I could smell my mother’s cooking, taste the sea in Courtown. I could feel the wet of David’s tears. I could see the expression in his china-blue eyes. The hurt and pain I had caused him. The blaming and hatred and bitterness I had unleashed upon him just for being alive. I could see the can with the spoon sticking out of it and it twisted like a knife in my stomach. I could see Desmond, cold and waxen, lying on a slab. A dead child with a living spirit that had haunted our home for thirty years. I could hear Jill’s words.’You have a drinking problem.’ They repeated themselves over and over and over until my head ached with their persistent echo. I felt my lips move as the words tumbled out without any sound.
I’m an alcoholic.
I’m an alcoholic.
I’m an alcoholic.
My guardian angel kissed me gently on the back of the neck. I felt its protective warm glow envelop me completely. When I opened my eyes it was Matt’s arms that were around me. The group had gathered too. Diane was weeping uncontrollably, Connor was sniffing loudly into his handkerchief. Frank was smiling at me. Bertie, who would normally give an aspro a headache, was shoving a cup of tea beneath my nose. What was very strange was the ongoing devastation inside. I could not connect with anything outside that. I was surrounded by people but they were so far away. I was inside, looking out, instead of outside looking in. I must have stayed there for an age, without moving, feeling the fury. I felt like the inside of an
empty tumble dryer. Swirling around and around, no definite shape or form, yet knowing it was a beginning. An atom, a particle of what was to be.
As the fear and terror began to subside, my tears were less violent, the shuddering eased off and the winds abated. A calm descended on me. A beautiful clean, white calmness surged through my heart. I recognised it for what it was. My moment of truth. My guardian angel. My higher self. The real me. Jack. Jacqueline Joyce, as she really was.
I sipped my cup of tea, aware of the muffled whispers from the other members of the group. Brian had taken his seat and was trying to condense whatever lessons had occurred that evening. I did not hear a single word that he said. I didn’t need to.
I looked at my watch. Strangely enough it had stopped — at exactly the moment Matt had begun to talk: 7.32 pm. I laughed out loud. Everybody stared at me. I laughed again. I would never have the watch fixed, never. I showed it to Matt, who smiled and hugged me. Perhaps there were such things as celestial beings. Feathered friends who worked behind the scenes. Matt pointed out that I had been crying and leaning on the watch at an angle. It was possible that my tears had run into the works, causing it to shut down. I chose instead to believe it was a sign. Something wonderful had happened to me. The truth of my twenty years of hiding had unleashed itself with a terrible wrath.
While my crying subsided for a while, it was not long before it started again. This time I expected it, hence it did not cause me much concern any more. I was getting used to it and let it happen. Sooner or later it would stop, when it was ready to stop. I did not know it but I had acknowledged my own worthiness. I had allowed myself to be hurt and to feel it. It was my first experience of self-love, self-respect and self-protection, all of which were inexplicably alien to me.
Matt took me to the coffee-shop. I was overcome with an exhaustion so profound I could have put my head on the table and fallen asleep right there and then. I swirled my coffee around and around still trying to take in the assailing revelations. They were still knocking on my door. I was still opening it.
I had nothing to say really. I noticed a flower in a vase on the table. It was a single pink rose. I picked it up and smelt it. The scent was sweet and tangible.
‘How are you feeling now?’ Matt asked.
‘I can’t put it into words,’ I answered truthfully.
‘Jack, you’re going to be OK.’ Matt leaned across and put his hand in mine. My hand suddenly felt tiny and soft, like a child’s. I started to cry again. Would it ever, ever stop?
‘What am I going to do, Matt? My life is in shite.’ I couldn’t believe my own words.
‘You’ll do what I do,’ he said, sipping his coffee with his free hand.
‘I really am an alcoholic, aren’t I?’ As I said the words, they sounded familiar, not nearly as shocking as I thought they would.
‘What do you think?’ he said.
I nodded dolefully. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you challenge me before?’ I asked.
‘Because you weren’t ready,’ he told me. ‘There would have been no point. I could have ruined a unique opportunity if I pushed it. It’s best that you see it yourself: you’re a chronic alcoholic.’
I didn’t like the ‘chronic’ bit but found myself unable to argue the point.
‘And all this time, I really thought I had a problem with food,’ I said wryly.
‘You do have a problem with food,’ Matt put in. ‘But only because you are an alcoholic, not vice versa. One will cross out the other, you’ll see. It’s all the same. You’re suffering from an emotional illness.’
I sat and drank coffee and listened to Matt, hanging on every word. He explained to me slowly the workings of alcoholism. The theory that it was in fact a disease. It helped greatly to know that I was sick, and not bad, as I had thought. I was dubious about the fact that not everyone would share that view.
‘It doesn’t matter what they think. Jack, it’s not going to be easy, I assure you. It’s tough. I’ll help you if you want my help.’
‘You knew right from the beginning, didn’t you?’
‘Of course. I’ve always known you were an alcoholic.’ He patted my hand and laughed. I couldn’t see the humour of it.
‘I guess everyone else does too, huh?’
Bit by bit, the picture was becoming clearer. I explained to him the fight that had taken place in the flat with Joe Hayden and my friends. I told him about Alice and about the court summons. Suddenly my head was racing at a million miles an hour. How was I ever going to sort out the mess I had made? If I lost David my life would not be worth living.
‘You’re not going to lose David,’ Matt waved his hand. It was easy for him to be so flippant. It was my life. David was my life. I couldn’t bear to think of sharing him with anyone else. Matt pointed out to me that Andrew was not looking for custody, he just wanted to see David and get to know him.
‘Who are you to have the monopoly on that child? Just because you’re his mother doesn’t make you his owner. You don’t own him, you know. Don’t you think he needs a lot more people than you in his life? My kids need all their grannies, granddads, neighbours and friends. They need every single one of them. Jack, you’re so self-centred and selfish, you have to change your attitude. We don’t always know what’s best for our children.’
That hurt terribly, deep down to the bone but he was right and I knew it. It wasn’t as grave a situation as I was making it out to be. What was really bothering me was stuck in my gullet unable to go down or up. It was like a piece of bone wedged in my throat.
‘One thing’s for sure,’ Matt went on. ‘Keep drinking the way you are and David’s going to suffer. He may very well end up in England with Andrew. To be honest, if you continue down the road you are going, I’d be glad to see him off.’
I thought about it and tried to be honest. I didn’t want to do David any more harm.
‘What’s really hurting you?’ Matt had read my mind.
My eyes were welling up again. I shook my head from side to side, unable to get the words out.
‘It’s Joe, isn’t it?’
This time, I nodded my head up and down. I smiled at the mention of his name.
‘Oh Jack. No one fucked it up more than you have where that’s concerned.’
‘I know.’ I admitted it, at long last.
‘I’ll sponsor you,’ he said matter-of-factly.
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means I’ll guide you, so to speak. Are you willing to come to A A with me?’
‘AA?’
‘Yes, Jack. Do you want to or not?’
I didn’t need to think about it. ‘I’ll go.’
‘Good. Now I have a few rules. You must do exactly what I tell you to do — understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK. First you must not try to contact Joe.’
‘What?’
‘You mustn’t under any circumstances try to contact him. You have a lot of work to do on yourself first.’
‘I can’t agree to that! I’ve got to contact him. I’ve got to make it up to him. I have to apologise. What will he think of me if I don’t do it straight away?’
‘Trust me on this one, Jack. If you move too hastily he won’t believe a word you say. A simple apology is not going to fix this one. You have to show him you’re sorry. Show him you mean business. You can make amends to him by staying away, for the time being anyway. Do you understand?’
‘No! I have to stop them now!’ I shouted angrily.
‘Stop who?’ he asked.
‘Joe and Jill. I think they’re… an item. Christ, I can’t even bring myself to say it,’ I blubbered.
‘You contact either of them, and I walk.’
I looked at him stonily. I had no choice but to believe him. I was determined to get it right.
‘How do you know you’re right about this anyway?’ I asked. ‘What makes you the expert?’
> ‘I’m sober four years. You’re not. Therefore, I know. You don’t.’
I wanted to smash his head in. I hadn’t changed at all.
I was seething with anger. I wanted to bang Joe’s door down and tell him I knew I was an alcoholic and that it would be OK now. As if that would be enough to convince anyone.
‘Your main objective now is to get sober. Other people and relationships do not come into it.’
‘But they do,’ I argued.
‘Jack, you’re either with me or you’re not. Do you want to stop drinking or not?’ he said impatiently.
‘I want to stop,’ I said half-heartedly. I did want to stop but my fear was dictating that I wouldn’t be able to.
‘We start tonight,’ he said, getting up from the table.
‘Huh?’
‘The first thing you need is a baby-sitter. You will have to go to a meeting every day.’
‘But!’
‘You also need to go to your doctor at once. You may need medical treatment of some kind. When did you have your last drink?’
‘Last night,’ I lied.
‘You’re lying.’
‘I had a can this morning when I woke up. Look, I feel fine. Just tired.’
‘Here is a directory of meetings in Dublin. You have to come with me for the first couple of months. You’ll also need to find yourself a good counsellor.’
‘Hey! How long is all this going to take? I have to be back in work next week. How many meetings do you think I will need?’
Matt laughed. ‘One a day, three months minimum. Then you’ll only have to go for the rest of your life!’
‘Where am I going to get a baby-sitter?’
‘I don’t know, Jack. I’m not responsible for that. If you want this you’ll find one.’
‘Well, thanks. But it’s not that easy.’
‘It was easy enough to find a bottle of vodka, wasn’t it?’
I glared at him. I wanted one right there and then. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable and irritable. I couldn’t understand how I could still want a drink after everything that had happened that evening. I presumed it was wrong so I didn’t mention it.
The House that Jack Built Page 26