The opening moments of Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3 tease something that swerved dangerously close to home for this writer. A forlorn Star-Lord (real-life dickhead Chris Pratt) sits passed out at a table, empty bottles of alcohol littering the counter in front of him. Peter Quill can’t get over his ex-girlfriend Gamora, and he doesn’t know how to cope. And the people around him are sick of his bullshit.
In 2019, I hit the self-destruct button on my life. My alcoholism began when I was 9 years into a
relationship that I desperately wanted out of but didn’t have the wherewithal to leave on my own. I
didn’t know how to be with her, but I also didn’t know how to be alone. And being alone was much
more frightening. Eventually, through behavior and decisions that I am so thoroughly embarrassed and
humiliated by, I gave her no choice but to leave. But I wasn’t alone. Alcohol became my full-time
partner.
For months I drank like a fish, and I slept around. There was a hole in my heart the size of Texas, and I
was trying to plug it with things that only granted but a temporary reprieve. No one and nothing made
me happy. I wanted to die.
In early 2020, I met someone at work. I fell in love again, and this time it was real. The pandemic hit, and
the following 2 years were the best years of my life, even though the world was dying. Our place of
work shut down because of the pandemic. Against better judgement, we continued to meet up. We had
nothing but time, and we spent all of it together. We would sit in the car and just talk for hours. We
spent time outdoors walking trails and hiking. It was total magic.
I thought she was my solution. I thought that I could and would stop drinking for her. And I did briefly,
on and off. But the truth of the matter was this; I still didn’t know how to be alone. I had no relationship
with myself. I had no idea who I was outside the context of a relationship. I was a ticking time bomb.
Slowly but surely the world began to open back up. Things started to return to business as usual. She
was hanging out with friends more. She was traveling again. These things were her passions. These
things made her happy, and I wanted to play no part in denying her those joys.
But this suddenly left me with a lot of time alone. I had made her my world, and I started to realize how
empty my life was without her by my side. I had lost contact with almost all of my close friends. I had
lost sight of the things that I was passionate about. I realized that my well of self-pity knew no bottom.
When she would travel, I would drink. That is how I utilized my drinking; as a sort of fast-forward button. If I was constantly
unconscious, time would go by faster, and she would be home sooner. I was that terrified of being alone
with myself. I was never honest with her about how much I was hurting. I didn’t want her to worry. I
didn’t want to ruin her trips. I suffered in silence until it ruined everything.
Eventually she went away for a month, to do volunteer work in another country. That is the type of
person she is. Truly selfless. It is one of the innumerable reasons that I loved her. But I was the total
antithesis of her. I was totally consumed with myself. All I could think of was how much I hated myself or
how miserable I was. I didn’t know it then, but I was all ego. I had always made ego and pride
synonymous in my head. I would later come to the realization that self-pity and self-hatred are still just
forms of selfishness, even if they have negative connotations. So, when she told me her plans to travel
and volunteer, instead of being proud of her or happy for her, I became instantly terrified of the month long binge that was to come. I made it all about me and how it would hurt me. This time fear got the
best of me, and on several occasions, I tried to convince her to stay, or to cut the trip down to a shorter
duration. But she rightfully didn’t back down, and eventually I relented.
I did exactly what I knew I would do when she was gone. I drank like mad for the month. I had every
intention of stopping when she got back.
By the time she got back, I couldn’t stop. I tried. But then the shakes, the cold sweats, and the
tremendous anxiety would begin. The only thing that would settle me was a drink. I was totally in the
grip of it again. The battle was lost. Alcohol had won. I was powerless.
I started becoming a complete and total miserable bastard. I was no longer pleasant to be around. I was
quieter. I was angrier. I was less patient. I couldn’t enjoy things anymore because my disease was
constantly trying to inch my closer to a drink. I started canceling plans because I needed to drink. I would
cut plans short to get to the liquor store before it closed. I started missing work because I was too sick in
the morning to go in. I started causing arguments for no reason.
I brought one such argument, over something so trivial that I don’t even remember what it was about,
to a very dark place. Then I blacked out. I left her to agonize and worry.
In the morning, I tried to apologize, like I had done countless times before. That morning it wasn’t
enough. She was done. She told me that I needed help. I was on my own again.
Heartbroken, I resolved myself to drinking alone on the couch until I died. It sounds dramatic, because it
was. But it was the truth. I once again found myself wishing for death. At some point in that haze of near constant unconsciousness, I made a call. I
don’t remember the call, or who it was with. But I set myself up with a detox program. My parents drove
me later that day. I went in dead sober. I would be there for up to 7 days. That felt like an eternity, at
the time. My sick brain told me that if I could get my shit together in those 7 days, she would take me
back. I would emerge from the 7 day detox as the god of sobriety, and I would get my life back. This
would prove ruinous.
I went to detox. I drank coffee and ate ice cream. I did art. I spoke with my counselor. She
recommended a 30 day rehab. My disease told me I wasn’t as bad as the other people there. My disease
told me I didn’t need all that. I was setup with an outpatient program near home, and I left.
I did not get the girl back when I left. I had not learned anything. I did not pass “GO”, and I did not collect $200.
Within a couple of days my mom was admitted to the hospital and I had developed no coping skills to
deal with the fear that I was suddenly faced with. So I did the only thing I knew; I drank. I blacked out and couldn’t
drive my father to the hospital to see her. I had never known shame and guilt like I did when I came to that evening. Luckily my mother ended up being ok, but what if she hadn't been?
I packed my bags again. I filled an empty Wendy’s cup with bourbon and hit the road. I showed up on
the doorstep of the detox again unannounced and was admitted once again. This time I listened more.
This time I took suggestions. This time I went to the 30 day program.
I stayed in that 30 day program for 60 days. Those 60 days were fraught with their own peril. While there, I distracted myself with things and people that briefly helped me escape from my heartbreak and my disease. I built a total fantasy in my head of what life would be like when I got out. I was living in a delusion. I ultimately
misspent a majority of my time there. My body had recovered, but my mind was still very sick.
When I realized the depth of my delusion, and how much time I had wasted, I left rehab against medical advice. I had no aftercare plan. I didn’t have the girl. I didn’t have anything. I begged them to let
me back into treatment, because I knew what was going to happen if they didn’t. They denied me, and I
did what I always did.
When I came to after this relapse, I had several self-inflicted gashes on my wrists and arms. My mother
was banging on my door telling me that the police were coming. In my blackout, I had written a note to
the woman I loved. I hurt myself, and I waited to die. Again. I had also sent a text message to the alumni
coordinator at my rehab, telling him my plan and blaming him for not helping me get back in to
treatment. He called my local police department for the wellness check. He called my mom and let her
know what was happening. He saved my life. The police came, and brought me to the local hospital, and that hospital
eventually transferred me to a psychiatric hospital.
I spent 7 of the loneliest days of my life there. My family was so tired. I was so tired. People stopped
taking my calls. I had finally been granted the Gift of Desperation. I knew I could no longer handle this on
my own.
I got out and I began participating in a program of recovery. I took more suggestions, and
even did most of them. I started doing the work, and things started to change.
I had 5 decent months of sobriety before the things that haunted me started dragging me back down. I
had set certain expectations, some consciously and some unconsciously, and when they were not met, I
began to lose my resolve.
“I thought I would be happier by now.”
“I thought if I did this work, and bettered myself, we would be back together by now.”
It all eventually came to a head in April of this year. I drank again for 1 night. I briefly revisited the
horror. I immediately came clean to my parents and my sponsor. The next day, my sponsor came to my
house, picked me up, and I jumped right back into my program. Often when people like me relapse, they
are out of commission for at least weeks, often months, and sometimes years. Some never make it back at all. It is nothing short of a
miracle that I was able to drink for that one night and bring myself back into the fold.
As of this writing, I am coming up on 30 days of sobriety again. I’m doing things a little bit differently. I’m
trying not to set expectations. I’m trying to revisit and reclaim the things that the Gift of Desperation
granted me. I’m reaching out and trying to make friends and build relationships. I’m taking things 1
minute at a time.
At this point you’re probably asking “Ok you're a drunk, we get it, great sob story, but what the hell does it
have to do with Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 3?”
Well, actually very little. Because after that opening sequence I mentioned up top, the movie largely
becomes about a cartoon raccoon. But let me digress.
SPOILERS FOR GUARDIANS OF THE GALAXY VOL. 3 FOLLOW
Star-Lord is snapped out of his stupor when, unannounced, Adam Warlock (Will Poulter)
shows up to the Guardians’ base and begins kicking the shit out of him and all his friends. The
confrontation leaves Rocket Raccoon (Bradley Cooper) on death’s door, and Star-Lord's malaise is
replaced with a steadfast determination to save his best friend’s life.
My sponsor tells me that helping another person, and in my case specifically helping another alcoholic,
will be the medicine that helps me stay sober. Reaching out and taking an honest interest in the
wellbeing of my friends will contribute to my wellbeing. Being there for the people I care about,
like Star-Lord is for Rocket, will help me more than anything else. I am trying to put this into practice,
slowly but surely, and I’m already starting to see the fruits of my labors.
Star-Lord ultimately reunites with Gamora, and the crew is able to save Rocket Raccoon. Star-Lord and
Gamora share a brief, beautiful moment, but ultimately go their separate ways for their own happy
endings. Gamora returns to her new found-family amongst The Ravagers, and Star-Lord returns to Earth
to find himself, and to reconnect with his family.
I hope I can be a little bit more like Star-Lord. I hope I can get to know myself better. I hope I can
reconnect with my family. I hope that I can let go of the past and be content with the present. I hope
that I can help people. And I really hope that I can learn to accept that sometimes, even if we love
someone very much, they might be better off without us.
