Tag Archives: Alcoholic

Open Letter to the Reader

Posted in Alcoholics Anonymous, Alcoholism, Ann G. Kroger, Houston, Recovery by

So… I have a lot on my mind. And I figure, I should just write candidly. I think only about fifteen people actually read this thing, though, so the chances are that I actually offend someone are pretty slim. I am in a quandary. I want to write, to be a writer. And what I want to write about is recovery, and yet I do not want to be typecast as a recovery writer. I think I should probably be grateful to be able to publish some kind of daily meditation or be a circuit speaker. But my heroes, oh my heroes: Hemingway, Rushdie, Salinger, wrote beautiful works of art. I want to be an artist. And yet, here I sit, where I’ve sat for everyday for the last week, really wanting to write about the Big Book of Alcoholics Anonymous. I want to explore my relationship with my recovery on paper in a way that is both honest and hopeful. And so, I think I must.

Now, with that said, I have a few concerns. I worry a bit about my anonymity. Just a bit though. I read Traditions Eleven and Twelve a few times now. I understand Bill’s and AA’s reasoning. I just do not agree with it. And luckily, I don’t have to. AA Tradition Three states, “The only requirement for AA membership is a desire to stop drinking.” It does not say, “The only requirements for AA membership are a desire to stop drinking and adherence to the rest of the traditions.” I’m sure I will write a post explaining my thoughts regarding the traditions at some point in the future. And I am just as sure someone will want to argue the finer points with me. (That’s actually my concern. Not the blowing of my anonymity, but that I will have to listen to other people’s opinions regarding my blowing of my anonymity.) If you disagree with me, feel free to shoot me an email or comment in the comment box. But I guarantee you, I don’t care.

My second concern is that I do not want anyone to actually think that I know what I am talking about. I have never understood AA. I am not a guru, a thumper, or an Old Timer. I don’t know how it works. I don’t even have any pithy sayings. I just listen in meetings, and if I am called on, I try not to talk longer than five minutes. That is about the extent of my knowledge of this program. No one should be looking to me as an authority on anything.

So, that’s about it. I’m not sure, yet, how my writing will manifest itself. I thought maybe I’d start from the beginning of the Big Book. But that seems too systematic for me. I think I’d rather write without a preordained schedule of topics. And for Lydia and Henry, I will continue with that as well. I am simply bogged down in her storyline right now and I’m not happy with it. I want to take a step back to regroup and reorganize.

Anywho, I hope all y’all have a great Monday.

Thank you, as always, for reading.

Peace,

Ann G. Kroger

agkroger@gmail.com (In case you still need to email me)

What is a Riddle that has no Answer?

Posted in Alcoholics Anonymous, Alcoholism, Ann G. Kroger, Courage, Creative Writing, Houston, Recovery, Short Story by

Over time, Lydia became used to the hospital. From her bed, she could map the very slight difference in the movement of the sun outside her window as fall started to settle in on Houston. As the days got shorter, Lydia continued to heal. Shortly, she would be able to go home. But go home to what? That is what Lydia most often pondered. It was too late for her to go back to school. The semester was well under way. It didn’t matter much anyways. Lydia knew she would not return. It was not just that she had been in an accident, or that she had lost her best friend. As bad as that was, there was another, unspoken, unarticulated wound. But Lydia could feel it festering inside her.

The things that had at one time seemed important, no longer did. Sororities, clothes, classes, boys, all seemed so flimsy to her. What was the point if one day we all just died anyways? Tragedies happen everyday. You go for a check-up and it turns out you have cancer. You’re sitting at your office desk, when all of a sudden an acute pain grips your chest. Or you’re driving down a two lane highway when you get T-boned by a truck driving too fast… For the first time in her life, Lydia knew what it was like to fear.

The thought of going home, though the practical decision, only made her shake her head. There was no way. There was no way that Lydia could go back to her childhood bedroom and resume her same life. She had seen too much, aged too quickly. The cuteness of her previous life seemed so naive and hopeful, trite and useless. She knew her mother, a lethal mixture of boundless optimism and passive aggressive tendencies, would only further exacerbate the issues. Besides, there were too many memories of Tuck lingering there.

Lydia did not know what to do. She couldn’t stay where she was, and she couldn’t go back to where she had come.

And with that, Lydia opened her book and read.

What do you Think about When you Don’t Want to Think?

Posted in Ann G. Kroger, Courage, Creative Writing, Houston, Love, Recovery, Short Story by

Lydia woke with a start and had a moment of confusion, disillusion, realizing she was not under the fluffy, eyelet comforter at home. And for a split second, just the most minutest of moments, she thought she was back at her friend’s shore house on Jamaica Beach. A wave of gratitude, the understanding and inkling of waking up from a nightmare began to wash over her. As the smile was just beginning to travel from her mouth to her eyes, an unfamiliar sound, the sound of whirling and a beep, followed by additional beeps caught her short. Half propped out of bed, Lydia remained motionless. To move, to turn her head, to acknowledge the machinery behind her would only confirm what Lydia could not bring herself to confirm. As long as she didn’t know, didn’t really know, maybe it didn’t happen. So she sat there, in the dark room, unable to move or to turn her head. Alone and wishing and listening.

Hello!

Posted in Alcoholism, Courage, Houston, Recovery, Short Story by

Thank you for visiting my blog! My name is Ann G. Kroger. For years now, I have thought of myself as a writer. The problem, though, was that I was always too fearful to actually let anyone read my writing. My stories were always in a state of flux, never quite good enough to suffer the blows of criticism.

Then one day, with the help of some friends, I realized I just needed an extra dose of courage. I decided to spend a year writing to see what happens. I write almost every day, but a couple of times a week, I take a deep breath and push the “Publish” button. Holy cow.

Anywho, a few weeks ago, I starting writing about this character, Lydia. It was a little thing about how bad things should not happen on sunny, bright Houston days. And in this story, Lydia’s husband left her. I liked the story very much. So, I decided to write the story of how Lydia and her husband (who I subsequently named Henry) met. Then I wrote about Lydia entering recovery.

I’ve grown very fond of Lydia and Henry. Most of my posts are about their parallel journeys through life. As I post them, they are a bit neurotic and disordered. I think confusion has made it difficult for new readers to catch up to whats happening.

Therefore, I have rearranged my website to accommodate Lydia and Henry. You can click on the Lydia and Henry tabs where I have re-posted the stories in a chronological timeline. Hopefully, this will make it easier to catch up. Then you can join the roller coaster in progress as the episodes post.

Thank you for reading. I know there are never enough hours in the day, so it means a lot to me when even five people set aside a few minutes of their life to support me and my writing. Feel free to email or post comments. I would love to know who you are and what you are thinking.  Thanks again.

 

Best regards,

Ann G. Kroger

Cat and Mouse

Posted in Alcoholism, Houston, Recovery, Short Story, Uncategorized by

To Lydia, there was an acute anticipation and perplexing excitement wrapped around her alone-time bottle. But first she had to accomplish her chores in order to be able to drink in peace. Normally, the first order of duty, upon coming home from Spec’s, was stashing the bottles so Henry would not stumble upon them.

Lydia replenished the liquor in the bar. Although she tried to stay away from it, she inevitable drank away at least one, if not more, of the bottles before she was able to make it back to Spec’s. A long-standing cat and mouse game existed between Henry and Lydia. Lydia was sure he kept tabs on the level of liquids that were in each of the bottles. Lydia in turn also kept tabs so that she would put in the exact amount back. Lydia didn’t know what would happen if this game didn’t exist, if Henry didn’t try to exert control, and if she didn’t try to outwit him. It was insanity. She was sure of that. She never told any of her friends, never told anyone, of the craziness that played out between her and Henry. She was ashamed of it. And yet, there was a coyness to the situation. She knew he cared. So, while she could not let him cut off her supply of alcohol, she played along and let him think he was making a difference. The idea that Henry and Lydia would ever have an adult, rational conversation about Lydia’s drinking was laughable. Some things, Lydia thought, were better left in the closet.

Lydia walked back into the kitchen and started putting the groceries away. She was an expert chef, had learned over the years. But now that the kids were gone, Henry was mostly at work, Lydia didn’t really have an occasion for cooking. Well, that would change, she thought, as she stood looking at her cabinets. Lydia would have a dinner party. This day was just getting better and better. A party. That was what the situation called for. She would start right away planning a menu and ordering invitations. Lydia slammed her palm down on the granite counter-top, and she would only invite women.

Lydia turned on the music and as she opened a bottle of wine. In the coolness of the refrigerator, two more bottles were tucked away in the vegetable crisper.

Dancing in the Aisle

Posted in Houston, Recovery, Short Story by

With an audible chuckle, Lydia realized that with Henry gone, she could drink all she wanted for as long as she wanted. All pretenses, all confines, were now lifted. She could dance and sing, play the Ramones at full volume, and dance around in her skivvies. She could lounge in the hot tub and drink margaritas. She could stay up all night watching movies and drinking champagne. It would be glorious, like a vacation in her own home. For the first time in a long time, Lydia felt free.

With nervous anticipations, Lydia pulled into the parking lot of the liquor store. Normally, as Lydia loaded up her cart, she would make casual references to a party she was throwing or friends coming over for dinner, something that might justify the large quantity of booze in her cart. Today, though, she didn’t care what anyone thought. She was on a mission. Manically, Lydia began counting on her fingers all the supplies she would need for her vacation. She would need several bottles: vodka, rum, tequila, some club soda, diet coke, mixers, limes. And a carton of cigarettes. Henry didn’t let Lydia smoke because of the cancer. But fuck him. He left. She could do whatever she wanted and what Lydia wanted to do was smoke. Drink and smoke and dance.

Lydia wondered if she should take the time to stop at Whole Foods before going home. She paused as she was reaching for the Bombay Sapphire. Food. How long was this bender to last? Two days? Four? A week? A smile crossed Lydia’s lips. This was going to be great. In anticipation of nothing, Lydia added three more bottles of gin to her cart, just in case. She would stop by the store. She wanted everything all set so she could enjoy herself without any restrictions or thoughts of having to leave the house. She imagined free-range, organic, roast chicken and scalloped potatoes au gratin with a Sauvignon Blanc for her vacation dinner. Oh, wine. How could she have forgotten the wine? Aargh. Lydia swung the cart around and made for the back aisle.

I Dream an Alcoholic’s Dream III

Posted in Houston, Recovery by

I dream an alcoholic’s dream

Of insanity.

With broken bottles at my feet

And a car wrapped ’round a tree,

Walking through Houston’s streets,

I wonder, how this can be me?

 

I dream an alcoholic’s dream

Of abhorrancy.

With no money, I cajole,

From my family I stole,

Within me there’s this hole

I wonder, where can be my soul?

 

I dream an alcoholic’s dream

Of serenity.

I dream this ride will finally end.

And of finding one true friend.

I wonder, can this life I transcend?

 

I dream an alcoholic’s dream

Of recovery.

With laughing children at my feet

And a house with blooming trees,

Walking through the shady streets,

I wonder, how can this be me?

I Dream an Alcoholic’s Dream

Posted in Houston, Recovery by

I dream an alcoholic’s dream

Of insanity.

With broken bottles at my feet

And a car wrapped around a tree,

Walking through the city streets,

I wonder, how this can be me?

 

I dream an alcoholic’s dream

Of guilt and shame.

With no money, I cajole,

From my family I stole,

Within me there’s this hole

I wonder, where could be my soul?

 

I dream an alcoholic’s dream

Of serenity.

I dream this ride will finally end.

I dream of finding one true friend.

I dream my heart I can amend.

I hope, this life I can transcend.