Unlike probably most people who read this, I'm not familiar with Steinberg's column or his style. I came just to read a book about one person's struggle with addiction, and that's what this is: a story about a guy who has to face that his drinking went from something that was part of his life, to something he lived for. I feel it captured well what it must be like to wrestle with an addiction, particularly the constant rationalizing. For example, he doesn't want to let go because he paints beautiful, seductive pictures of wine tasting tours, sunsets on the beach, and jovial moments with literate co-workers at storied Chicago bars. Who would want to stop such sophisticated living?
But then, he relates the need to get a fix at 10:30 on a Saturday morning, and so grabs his son and deposits him at the local library as a pretext to buying some cheap vodka which he then consumes in the men's room--a lot of drinking goes on in bathrooms, in this story. Buying a cheap sweet liqueur on the sly and downing it in a disgusting porta-john while on a road-trip with the family doesn't have the same urbane ring as sipping a fifty-year port in a hotel lobby in Lisbon. No matter how much he might believe in the fantasy of the latter, his reality appears to be firmly of the former. I appreciate he was honest enough to share both.
Thanks to a court order, he reluctantly treats his addiction with the twelve steps, fighting each one (particularly surrendering to a higher power, good agnostic that he is). Yet it apparently provides enough of a structure and outlet that, despite his disdain, it helps him. He points out that until science properly understands the root of addiction and how to cure it, this and similar therapies are a bit like battling cancer by shouting at it. But for now, this is all we have.
Though the book ends on an uptempo beat--"one year clean and sober as of press time!"--it's clear there's nothing to celebrate here. He's an addict who can destroy his life with alcohol at any moment. I think he did a good job capturing the self-centerdness, the self-delusion, and the general selfishness of someone who is a functional addict, and the long hard slog they have if they choose to try to extract themselves from that self-focus, and instead focus on others. If you're an addict, maybe there's an inspirational story for you here. I am not one (and no, I'm not in denial), but if ever there was a reason to not become one, Steinberg's memoir provides plenty of misery showing why not.