On Saturday I posted a picture here of my son Blake, who I finally got to see over the weekend. Although I’m in almost daily contact with him by phone and FaceTime, that was the first time I’d seen him in the flesh for about 3-4 months. As anyone who’s followed these posts and my progress will know, there’s a good reason for that. To put it frankly, three months ago I simply wasn’t in anything like the right condition to see him. To her great credit, my ex-wife was prepared to arrange something but I had to say no, on the grounds that I wasn’t capable, presenting as I did like the homeless alcoholic that I was.
Anyway, moving forward to happier times, it’s obviously the case that I’m much better now and so it came to pass that, with some help from the lovely rehab people, I was able to see him again. As you can imagine, it made what has already been an extraordinary year, into something truly meaningful. We didn’t do anything spectacular, just had a slushy, bought some LEGO, walked around and chatted. As always when I speak to my son – and you’ll forgive the proud dad moment coming up – I was struck by how smart, kind and funny he is. I’m immensely proud of him, and his mum is doing a great job. She doesn’t need me to say this, but I’m proud of her too. She’s had a lot to deal with lately, as you can imagine.
And here’s the thing: my reunion with Blake didn’t need to be a day long, dad-tastic extravaganza. Just the simple act of seeing him, holding him in my arms, talking to him, laughing together, taking the mickey out of each other, all that was enough, at least for now. He chatted away happily over his grape slushy and enquired after the coffee I was drinking, in the disarmingly blunt and tangential manner that only a child of seven can:
‘What’s that daddy?’
It’s just a coffee, kid.
‘Why do you drink so much alcohol?’
Aaaand, so it goes. In line with my policy of honesty about this matter, I told him that I don’t drink alcohol anymore, because I get sick and it makes me sad and everything goes a bit wrong. Glaring at his slushy, I noted defensively that sugar is also addictive and generally bad for you and maybe he should have a good, hard look at his own damn life choices too. I didn’t quite word it like that, but you get the gist. However it is, I’m glad that it’s out there and he knows something of my situation. Obviously, I don’t want to overburden the kid with adult horrors, but in my own vexed experience it’s much better to be open about these things, as long as you can find the appropriate language and context. Right now, he knows as much as he needs to and I’m happy with that. As I mentioned in a previous post, I came to the conclusion that I’d like to tell him about my drinking problem, after seeing people bring their own children to meetings of Alcoholics Anonymous. I recall being initially horrified by this but soon realised that, for many, getting to a meeting can mean the difference between drinking and not drinking – and when an alcoholic drinks, Hell follows with them. Better then to spare the kids the sobbing and the screaming and the phone calls to the emergency services, and just cart them off to an AA meeting, where they can pick their noses and be bored but are, at least, safe. I’m not at the stage yet of taking Blake to a meeting, but he knows I go to them, and knows they help me get better. He’ll come along one day maybe, or maybe not. Either way there’s no hurry. I’m getting better and that’s what really counts. All things will pass.
Which bring me to this. None of the above would be possible if it wasn’t for the work I’ve been doing at rehab. As I’ve mentioned before, one of the critical aspects of that is the quieter internal work that forms a major part of any therapeutic regime. I do a lot of thinking and considering. And not in the brooding, introspective, melancholy way that has characterised my struggles with alcoholism and depression. Instead, a new lightness of touch has made itself present in my dealings with myself. I think a lot less about what has happened and what might happen – both fertile territory for emotional disorder – and instead think a great deal about what’s happening right now. ‘Living in the moment’, an irritatingly ubiquitous phrase, seems to be the Holy Grail of modern wellness and sometimes seems just as mythical and unobtainable. However hard you might want to try, living in the moment simply isn’t possible if you’re hellbent on rushing through it. I’m immensely lucky and grateful to have been given a chance to take a long view of the moment I happen to be in, and give it a chance to really ‘be’. Armed with this sense, I’m starting to approach all manner of situations differently, including the time spent with my son. I don’t have to drag him around a theme park and throw expensive toys at him. For sure he wouldn’t say no to these things, but I’ve also realised that he doesn’t expect or need them either. Children are extremely mindful and live very much in the moment. It’s adults who try to drag them quickly through it, in the disordered belief that life is something to be experienced in a rush. But for me and Blake last Saturday life was just that, itself and on its own terms. Observing from a distance, the watcher would have seen a little blond boy in a red coat, sitting in a café with his dad, chatting happily together. At one point, the father reaches over and ruffles his son’s hair, they look each other in the eye, smile and laugh. The scene is unremarkable in itself, for such is the nature of unconditional love that it requires no further embellishment or colour. It exists just there, beautifully in the moment, unsaid and almighty.
One day at a time
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