Mornings in the studio with the cats
Every morning the cats and I head into the studio. I bring something caffeinated and the laptop to start the day with some writing and they enjoy having a large, open space to run around and harass each other in. Some days I can get started on a painting project—most, I end up retiring back to the apartment to work on music instead. It’s a little easier to break a habit there, perhaps because I’ve not been doing it as long as visual art.
The thing is, when you spend nearly two decades pouring a vodka before starting a painting, suddenly trying to paint without that drink is like trying to start a car without a key. Yes, there are ways to do it, but it’s not easy. I have not yet figured it out.
I tend to overthink things, and the one thing that drinking always did was quiet my mind. I could focus in ways that I just can’t otherwise. The overwhelming thoughts of futility and despair send me into a state of paralysis that Nothing really matters anyway so why bother starting anything. Alcohol always quieted that voice, at least just enough where I could work uninterrupted for hours on end.
So I don’t really know what to do about it. I watch the cats. I stare at the blank canvases, lining the wall. People go about their day, walking by down the sidewalk outside, none really noticing me sitting on this couch. There’s a 24-hour liquor store a block away. Five years without a drink and the gains feel minimal, at best—certainly not offsetting the fact I’ve lost touch with the only part about myself I ever really liked.
We take things one day at a time in recovery, but I look at all the days behind me and wonder how much I could have accomplished by now. I’ve barely picked up a paintbrush in five years. I’ve not taken a single photograph. Usually I’d have published three books by now. There are costs and benefits to every choice, and so many people in my life smile and talk about how quitting drinking is the best thing they’ve ever done. I’m worried that for me, it’s been the worst.
