Pour Me Another Shot

The rich amber color, the once peaty smell, the slight tingle as it passed my lips - it was my poison and my passion.  "It" was Irish Whisky. 

More often than not, I would find myself lingering on about my lover.  All that encompassed my life, my time, my thoughts; everything fell by the wayside at the mention of Whisky.

Songs are composed about the drink.  From Willie Nelson to Miranda Lambert, lyrics celebrate the spellbinding powers of whisky.  Love songs, drinking songs, victory songs, stupid & silly songs - even lamp shades on your head antics.

By 14 I was under the mesmerizing addiction of whisky.  Small sips from my parents' somewhat limited alcohol stash knew my name.  Of course, in those days, my palatable sense of addiction was not so astute.  If it erased the pain, I'd try it.  Never in a million years will I acquire an infinity for Crème de Menthe; even if it's a grasshopper.  But, neatly stowed away was the liquor cabinet in my parents' living room. If it had an alcohol content percentage, I would drink from it.  I will never know if my parents caught on to my samplings; and I'm quite sure I wasn't the only one of my siblings nipping at the cooking sherry.

What makes an alcoholic?  Addiction, the taste, the feelings that follow; becoming numb to the outside world?  I am of the firm belief that there is no real strong scientific evidence to prove or disprove the causes of addiction.

My personal love affair, riddled with self-loathing and unbelievably low self-esteem became part of me at an early age.  The introduction of booze was born during my teen-age years; confusion mixed with all the hormonal fireworks occurring made booze all the more comforting.  From the first sip, I knew I would be fighting a life time, full fledged war.  I would be the only soldier on my team, the only POW, the only casualty. 

Many a mistake were made while under the influence.  No one is perfect, but my compass pointed in all directions - truth be told, I was unable to locate "magnetic north", and the needle spun in all directions.  Unable to get my bearings straight, I wandered aimlessly through life, nipping at the bottle during the entire journey.  A finish line was nothing but a clever distraction for me.  My compass was just how many ounces remained in the whisky bottle.

Some doors never open.  They remain locked.  Fear keeps them bolted shut.  Complete and utter despair enveloped me during my teen-age years.  Coming of age was like a jigsaw puzzle, missing a piece.  I remained in a constant state of apprehension.  My home life was frightening.  My parents did their best, but as an adopted child, there was never a level of comfort for belonging to a family unit.  I'm not blaming anyone, but I do wish that my parents could have been better at recognizing the signs. 

I crawled into a deep hole, a secret hiding place, where no one could hurt me.  At least that's what I thought.  Yet, there was truly never a safe zone.  Persistent anxiety crippled me.  My only sense of calm was when I was buzzed.  My total transformation into the adult club of alcoholism did not arrive until after my 25th birthday. 

I was sexually assaulted when I was 17.  It is only now that I feel safe in letting go of that secret.  While my rapist will remain nameless, he did take my innocence.  The strength and psychological resilience which I prided myself in, had become translucent.  My veil was beginning to erode before my very eyes. I never told my parents.  I carried that baggage with me; the feeling of being violated.  There was an abundance; an over-flowing silent scream inside my marred psyche praying for a release and a Band-Aid.

I was blessed with 3, yes 3 beautiful miracles in my early years.  I suffered a late term miscarriage at the age of 17.  That left a huge hole in my heart.  Then, in 1983 I was blessed by the birth of my daughter Eryn Corry.  I love her with all of my heart.  In 1984, I lost my son Michael Ryan shortly after he was born.  The sting and ripping grief from that has never left me.  Guilt, extreme sadness and a huge void are ever present reminders of a little blond headed boy.  1985 brought another boy, Bryan Scott who is nothing short of a miracle.  He is the kind of son that every mother dreams of.  He stands by me no matter what. 

The 1994 death of my beloved Daddy pushed me over the edge.  Every single cell in my body ceased to exist the night he died.  The man that loved me the most, loved my children, was the best pa-pa, the softball, baseball, soccer coach, Saturday afternoon hiker who was my best friend left my already fragile world.  My life shattered on that rainy night.  Even now, 21 years later, the mere mention of his name renders me helpless.  So many events or circumstances left scars, but the death of my Daddy, my "Secret Pal"  left me caught in an almost terminal whirlwind.  Drinking became a full time play.

There are some who presume that what they see on the outside is the true reflection of a person.  What a facade!  Dig deep and you'll find a woman who is insecure, scared to death, wrought with fear and crippled by anxiety.  6 years ago I did not know how to deal with the list.  Hiding it was my main mission. 

Suddenly, and without so much as a warning, God put me face to face with someone who was battling breast cancer.  "She's fighting for her life", I thought.  "And look what I'm doing to mine".  That was June 9th.  Cold turkey - and I'm not talking left over Thanksgiving dinner-I put down the bottle and have not looked back.

While I may have become sober, I hurt many people along the way.  I'd like to believe I have been able to make amends to those I've hurt.  I am crestfallen that those I harmed the most were my precious gifts in life - my children.  My son, Bryan has forgiven me.  He has a million reasons not to.  I was absent for most of his childhood.  Not physically, but emotionally and mentally.  He forgave me.  And he did so with no boundaries.  He remains to this day, one of my strongest supporters.  The love that my heart and mind hold towards him is bounteous.

My beautiful daughter Eryn Corry has not been as forgiving.  I love her regardless and always will.  She has every right to have the grudge she has.  My prayer is that eventually she opens her heart.  Perhaps with the birth of her son Christopher, my handsome little grandson, she may come to terms with my failures as a mother.  I wanted to be her role model, someone she admired.  How can I even begin to cast any blame upon her.  As with Bryan, I was physically there, but emotionally I was far, far away. 

The most paramount emotion I have garnered from my years as an alcoholic is that of forgiveness -Towards people who hurt me; the rapist, those who skewered me with cruelty and often time brought me to me knees with despair. In exchange, I hope that those affected by my drinking can forgive me.  Mostly I seek that forgiveness from my dear husband John and the 2 glorious gifts from God - my children.

6 years seems like a lifetime to me.  But, it's also marks the day I took stock in my life, catalogued every fear, poor decision, empty whisky bottle, threw them in the garbage and reclaimed my life. 

It's been a good day.

Daddy's Wool Jacket

That day in March was long.  A soft rain fell.  It's not often that a thousand days can pass without so much as a second thought, but then, before you are aware of it, the sun ebbs away and a stillness fills the emptiness that is night.  There is no sound.   That night; that long night in March, a soft, gentle rain fell on the sand and against the windows.  As you gazed out towards the ocean, a reflection looked back, and with every breath, the window fogged.

Daddy was a smart dresser. Trousers, carefully creased, silk ties, crisp shirts and a suit jacket. As a little girl, I found myself earning dimes and quarters by pressing my Daddy's dress shirts, monogrammed handkerchiefs and other linens set aside for attention.  To this day I find ironing to be one of the most relaxing, rewarding and strangely addictive household duties.  As a little girl, being able to be responsible for my Daddy's dapper appearance gave me a sense of pride.  Those were the days of dreams.

Fast forward some 30 years, to a small beach side community, and you could still see that same dapper appearance.  The characteristics were still present, although somewhat dulled by age.  The rich heathers, greys and mossy colors of Daddy's wool jackets were still calming to gaze at.  The jacket that once fit a strapping young man, now hung loosely on an older man whose disease owned his frame. A nicely pressed handkerchief could be found in one of the pockets, as well as a rosary and most likely a prayer card.

The jacket still conveyed a sense of character; it drew a vein of respect and appeared like a well told tale; the type of story the Irish are famous for.  There would be no tall tale on that long day in March.  Daddy's gentle spirit tired easily, but his hands, bony now from age and disease still held an air of distinction.  Daddy's hands wiped tears from 2 daughters' eyes, guided 2 brothers' in baseball, danced with grandchildren and embraced my mother.

Cancer knows no financial bracket.  The disease truly does not discriminate.  If you've a beating heart, then you're ripe for the disease.  Once dashingly handsome with black wavy hair, dancing Irish eyes and a generous smile, dimmed from the daily grind of an overpowering cancer.  The end was close.

The jacket smelled of moth balls. There was a small tear in the silk lining.  Regardless of these small imperfections, the jacket held its distinguishable traits.  It had been worn with pride.

That last evening, the Pacific Coast brought forth a fine Irish rain.  Soft and steady, it fell like a serenade, a love story calling back a long lost son.  Far off in the distance, Daddy could  hear the melody of the rain falling.  Surrounded by those who loved Daddy, we gathered around his bedside in the living room.  As a family, we honored our Daddy's last wishes to be able to die at home; to admire the poetic beauty of the crashing waves cascading against the rock.   Memories of years with his children and grandchildren flooded his mind.  There were the happy explorations of small tide pools with little creatures hidden within the cracks and crevices.  The days at the beach with Daddy.

Saturday evening came.  The priest arrived for the final anointing of the sick.  We gathered  around Daddy.  Private discussions had taken place; one by one, over the course of a week.  Apologies, recollections - the "should have", wish I "would have" and "if only" were offered.  A daydream gave Daddy the last bit of pure joy as he walked towards the tunnel of light.  And then, with night drawing to a close, soft rain caressing the sand, and the sound of the mighty ocean splashing against the rocks, Daddy took his final sigh of relief.  It was over.  No drama.

The rosary a few days later, an open casket for those that needed closure, and I looked at my Daddy in his plain, simple and beautiful casket.  A rosary has been intertwined upon his hand.  I did not want to accept his death then nor do I now. 

And there, a small frame ravaged by the cruelty of cancer laid a gentle man.  An Irishman.  A father, husband, grandfather, friend - a gentle soul.  And as if they were companions for their lifetimes - Daddy wears his tweed styled, wool jacket.  The wool jacket.  It was something else, indeed.

**This is dedicated to the memory of my dearest Daddy, Peter J. Gartlan, who left this world far too early.  On a rich, rainy Irish night on March 4, 1995, Daddy went home to heaven. 69 years were not enough.  He had so much more to accomplish.  There were unfinished jokes.  Hugs left unhugged.  Daddy, you are missed.  20 years later and you are still my Secret Pal**

Much love forever and always,
Your daughter, Ann Corry