In Celebration of Impossible People
An excerpt from Julia Wertz's book on recovery and friendship.
In my early recovery, I'd sit in smoky Florida AA meetings and be deeply insecure that my drinking was relatively amateurish and not that much of a problem compared to practically everyone else in there. People in those rooms had some genuine devastating ordeals typical of the uniquely downtrodden: the foreclosed homes, the child custody battles, the prison records. One dude lost his foot from the knee down because of drinking. He drank too much, and his liver rotted, costing him a foot. He was probably 50. He was also sober and happy, though, and he clapped and whistled when newcomers like me would raise a hand because we were counting days.Â
But I felt truly out of place. I had some funny piss-the-bed stories I could share, and, at the time, I had some personal and professional upheaval that caused some stress, but my drinking had never gotten to the point where it would have cost me one of my feet. With that in mind, I tried to make it perfectly clear to those professional alcoholics that I was more of a "garbage head" than anything else. That was a term I'd learned in rehab, meaning I was a little scatterbrained and non-commital regarding my drug(s) of choice: It didn't matter what it was as long as it got me there.Â
Because if I was honest about what kind of minor, insubstantial, boring problems my drinking caused me, I was afraid that I'd no longer be welcome in those particular AA rooms. So I would usually drift off throughout the meetings and try to imagine myself in a different place altogether, far away from the mess I’d made: If I worked harder at everyday wine-and-beer drinking, I would be perfectly fine. Oh, and I need to stop the cocaine shit. My real problem was that I needed my life to be super-extraordinary, and I should just give that up. That's why my "drinking" became sort of a problem. Can I say that out loud? Like, who do I talk to about this outside of an AA room where it doesn't come across that I'm in denial…
When I typed that, I got a twinge of sad regret because I remembered how difficult it was to be honest with anyone—especially people who tried to help me. Because after rehab, as much as I had committed to the whole "alcoholic" thing, it was primarily superficial stuff. Like, I worked out a ton, bought nicer clothes and kept them relatively clean. I wore cheap reading glasses I bought at the airport and had a copy of Siddhartha in my backpack. I started to chew more gum. All of this was done to make myself appear sober, but nothing had really changed inside. I just didn't know that at the time.
I bring all this up today because I thought about this after reading Julia Wertz's new graphic memoir "Impossible People: A Completely Average Recovery Story." This will sound like grand hyperbole, but it’s not: It is one of the best recovery memoirs ever published.
But I wouldn't call her recovery story "average" by any stretch. Her drinking was gross and caused unnecessary pain, but the book's strength is how brilliantly it zeroes in on the micro-epiphanies and gut-shot indignities that come with early sobriety. Do you remember all the dumb hobbies you tried to trick yourself into enjoying to overcompensate for the serotonin loss? How about all the vapid to-do lists written out even though you're not a to-do list person? Or, instead of going to a meeting to feel better, have you ever made this decision instead: "Fuck it, I'd rather stay home and watch a horror movie alone so I can scare myself into feeling alive." (I still do that.)Â
But what I really love about this book is its portrayal of growth. Most of Julia's comes in the form of trying to interact with new people, despite her debilitating anxiety about it. It happens—just slowly and with many failed friendships and flings. Eventually, she becomes pretty good at caring about herself and others. And as she builds meaningful relationships, her sober life becomes bigger and more fulfilling. AND—she gets a baby out of the deal.
Also, I should confess: I was never a graphic memoir person. I had paid little attention to them, but then Edith drew her recovery story. That blew me away and made me love and appreciate comics in a way I never did. Â
Anyway, here is an out-of-context quote from Julia’s book where the title originated.
"A lot of people fail to get sober because they don't let people in. They don't follow advice, they don't seek real help. They just keep struggling alone. Change is impossible under those circumstances. The world is full of impossible people. Don't be one of them."
(Trust me, when you see it as a comic in the book, it doesn't come off as cheesy, but now that it's presented here all naked, it kind of does. Sorry about that.)
I wish I could sell this better, but here goes: if you like this newsletter, you will adore "Impossible People" and turn to it repeatedly throughout whatever phase of sobriety (or relapse) you find yourself in.
Oh, and I did manage to score an actual excerpt from Julia, which is featured below. Be sure to view it in the browser so it comes out all pretty. — AJD
IMPOSSIBLE PEOPLE
by Julia Wertz
Impossible People: A Completely Average Recovery Story is now available at all your finest indie bookstores. Buy one in person today or get one at Bookshop.org.
This is The Small Bow newsletter. It is mainly written and edited by A.J. Daulerio. And Edith Zimmerman always illustrates it. We send it out every Tuesday and Friday.
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A POEM ON THE WAY OUT:
RELAX
by Ellen Bass
***********************
gus
and your cat will get run over.
Someone will leave the bag with the ice cream
melting in the car and throw
your blue cashmere sweater in the drier.
Your husband will sleep
with a girl your daughter’s age, her breasts spilling
out of her blouse. Or your wife
will remember she’s a lesbian
and leave you for the woman next door. The other cat–
the one you never really liked–will contract a disease
that requires you to pry open its feverish mouth
every four hours. Your parents will die.
No matter how many vitamins you take,
how much Pilates, you’ll lose your keys,
your hair and your memory. If your daughter
doesn’t plug her heart
into every live socket she passes,
you’ll come home to find your son has emptied
the refrigerator, dragged it to the curb,
and called the used appliance store for a pick-up–drug money.
There’s a Buddhist story of a woman chased by a tiger.
When she comes to a cliff, she sees a sturdy vine
and climbs halfway down. But there’s also a tiger below.
And two mice–one white, one black–scurry out
and begin to gnaw at the vine. At this point
she notices a wild strawberry growing from a crevice.
She looks up, down, at the mice.
Then she eats the strawberry.
So here’s the view, the breeze, the pulse
in your throat. Your wallet will be stolen, you’ll get fat,
slip on the bathroom tiles of a foreign hotel
and crack your hip. You’ll be lonely.
Oh taste how sweet and tart
the red juice is, how the tiny seeds
crunch between your teeth.
— [Ellen Bass]
ALL ILLUSTRATIONS BY EDITH ZIMMERMAN
