Allergy Season

I'm running out of versions of myself I'm pretending to be.

Between the ages of 12 and 14, I spent most of my hazy suburban Philadelphia summers playing sports with my closest friends from morning until night. When there weren't any organized sports, like Little League All-Stars or basketball camps, we played in-the-pool baseball, wire ball, or curb ball. We watched scary movies on VHS at night and went on trips to theme parks with giant waterslides and terrifying roller coasters. For several summers, it felt like we'd won a sweepstakes; there was no time to think or worry because our brains were still normal, and every day was impossibly fun.

And then, one of my best friends came down with what seemed like a late summer cold. My mother asked him if he was sick. "Not really," he said. "I'm allergic to August." 

This wasn't a viral infection due to an increase in pollen or ragweed but more akin to an early teenager's existential dread. I didn’t get a full explanation but from him, but my interpretation was that August began the big winding down of the summer and also the last days where we didn’t have to try to be anyone else. Once school started, it was a whole different act we had to perform to be happy. There was more danger and uncertainty. There was less time. It was the Sunday Scaries, but for the entire month.

And now, for the seven years I've been sober, I catch this allergy every August. Summertime passes, and I'm full of regret and maddening wistfulness for…something. A different, longer summer, maybe, but mostly, I want a fully-formed version of me. I'm running out of versions of myself I'm pretending to be. 

*****

Depending on how long you've been reading The Small Bow, you're either very surprised by this or not surprised at all that I still contend with some acute social anxiety. And it’s a wild version because I want everyone to like me, but I don’t want anyone to notice me. This has been the case since I was a young kid in school, but now, even more so, as a parent of kids in school.

Today is the first day for my two oldest children. As was the case for the past two years before their first days of school, I dread the moments throughout the year when I'll have to socialize with the other parents in their class. Last year, I flaked out on a boozy parents-only Game Night because I didn't want to make anyone uncomfortable by not drinking. And then I didn't go on a school camping trip with my son, either, for similar reasons. My therapist, Marty, encouraged me to go to that one, but I kept pushing back, explaining that I do not own any camping equipment or know how to use it. And then, once again, there was the booze factor. "What the hell am I supposed to do when the kids go to sleep, and it's Wine O'Clock, and they're passing bottles around the fire singing Springsteen songs?" Marty made me promise that this year, I'd try harder to participate in school activities, especially if I want my kids to participate in them. This was another fear to work through—sober. "You need to do this part, too," he said. 

I blew the opportunity to start this year differently when I showed up mumbly and aloof during the school’s welcome orientation last week. When we walked into my son's new first-grade classroom, a few parents milled together in the playroom, chatting about their active summers. Instead of walking towards them after they politely waved at me, I half-nodded but acted like I was preoccupied with inspecting the space for asbestos. What makes this even more frustrating for me is that I know these parents from last year's drop-off and pick-up routine, AND, Jesus Christ—they also came to my son's birthday party last June. 

But I froze (again) and didn't engage or make eye contact with anyone for more than three seconds. I introduced myself to the new first-grade teacher but didn't make any impression on her. I think she maybe thought my name was "D.J.," and I didn't even correct her. 

I eventually caught a string of luck–we had to bring our youngest to the orientation, and he pissed himself right through his pants and on one section of the reading area carpet. We scooped him up to the bathroom, pulled him out of his wet clothes, and then carried him out, pantsless, to the car so our orientation ended early. What a relief.

But I was a little mad that I clammed up again and made zero headway into becoming a more sociable and likable person at school. I told myself that the orientation was a pre-season game, and it's better to stay healthy and upright for Week 1. It’s still early.

In the past, when I've explained these debilitating predicaments to Marty, he's quick to point out that 99% of the time, no one is thinking about me at all. "Everyone is so preoccupied with themselves, but even if they judge you for how you act, why should you care?" 

As we made our way back from the school with a carful of three children, including one that was nude from the waist down, I felt calmer and I assured myself again that no one noticed me. 

But then I got that sunken-soul feeling when I realized, again, that no one noticed me. When will this stop?

Progress, not perfection. August is almost over.

*****

All Illustrations by Edith Zimmerman. See more of Edith’s work at Drawing Links.

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This is The Small Bow newsletter. It is mostly written and edited by A.J. Daulerio. And Edith Zimmerman always illustrates it. With your support, we hope to have more contributors very soon.

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CHECK IN FOR SEPTEMBER: How’s Your Recovery Right Now?

Would you like to join next month’s TSB Check-In?

Tell us how your recovery program is holding up:

Here’s a good example from last month’s:

I dreamt about drinking last night. Kept repeating to myself, “Two. Two. You’ve had two.” So that I wouldn’t have more? I’m not sure. I remember feeling good, like I had won something. Unfortunately. 

I think a dream/nightmare with this theme comes to me when I feel stuck. My partner and I live in a place threatened by hurricanes and other crises. We talk about leaving, but we stay because leaving is expensive in more ways than one. I’m reading fewer books, scrolling Instagram more, and missing the time in my life when I “had plenty of time” to figure it out and my Mom was still alive. Also, my knee is now snapping when I go upstairs, and I’m trying to ignore it. 

So — I’m feeling stuck, under pressure (to do what? I’m not sure), and at the same time grateful that I am writing this from the comfort of a king-size bed with two dogs at my feet and my partner still asleep. I won’t drink to escape today, but I still think about it from time to time. 

Send yours to: ajd@thesmallbow.com, Subject: SEPTEMBER CHECK IN

It will be published the first week in September.

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END NOTE:

The garden flew round with the angel,
The angel flew round with the clouds,
And the clouds flew round and the clouds flew round
And the clouds flew round with the clouds.

— Wallace Stevens