pursuing

My childhood babysitter called me the other day. She was drunk.

It was good to hear from her regardless. We talked about things we could remember. She was the daughter of my church’s head pastor, and was very much a pastor’s child. I don’t remember much about the head pastor of my church, except that his name was Jim. One Sunday, Jim preached about homosexuality being a sin. I don’t remember that sermon, but my friend’s mom said the next week the church had half as many people in the pews.

I do remember him preaching against porn though.

I’m sure he had plenty of sermons where the topic wasn’t about sex, but it’s funny what you remember. Mostly, what I remember about church from my childhood was drawing lightsabers, and Nimbus 2000’s on the church program. I also remember the songs. My dad didn’t usually sing the hymns, but one Sunday he mocked the music director / choir leader by mimicking his mouth movements like he was an opera singer. Him and I looked at each other and laughed.

I also remember the communion liturgy, the wafers, the grape juice, and the little prayer afterwards. The church we went to had some really massive, super beautiful stained glass windows. Underneath the robes, the stained glass, the ritualistic liturgy, and the mesmerizing harmonies of the choir, lay something sinister however. At least in my little world.

Let’s get back to my babysitter. When I was a little kid, I called her a “Freakazoid”. I reminded her of this on the phone call. As a kid, I thought I had offended her, but she remembered it with a laugh, and said “Yeah, because I listened to Rob Zombie.” She reminded me of a time she took me and my sister to the Picadilly Cafeteria, and after eating and getting sauce on my hands, I would just wipe it all over my shirt.

She moved on to tell me her alcoholism had gotten much worse. She said she was in a wheelchair, because she had fallen down drunk and fractured her leg. She told me about her previous boyfriend, who had died earlier that year. Apparently, he had been sober for a while, and after relapsing, he was dead within 3 months.

I read about these types of stories in the text of Alcoholics Anonymous, and hear in meetings about these sorts of things happening, and I even knew a couple of alcoholics that I met in meetings who have passed away after relapsing. But hearing about this from one of my childhood caregivers hit me hard. I had an entirely new interaction with alcoholism. The deadly nature of this disease was on full display for me, coming through my airpods in slurred speech and sad stories.

Alcoholism and drug addiction rot us out from the inside. Recovery has given me the chance to go inward and clean away that rot and decay. The sunlight of the spirit has cleared the fog of addiction, but the work is never truly finished. Getting in touch with myself, has become my latest objective in my sober journey.

I don’t know if my old babysitter will ever get and stay sober. My heart aches for my favorite “Freakazoid”.