Today’s essay is part of a new series on recovery that includes me,
, and . Each of us will wrestle this week with what recovery means to us and how our life experiences shape that definition. After the essay you’ll see a short biography of each writer in the group.
*
I think I’ve always been an addict of one sort or another. As a kid it was reading sci-fi books such as Lord of the Rings and The Redwall Series (Brian Jacques), or else trying my hand (at age 10, 11) at classics from my author-mother’s bookshelf such as Doctor Zhivago (Pasternak) and The Last Tycoon (F. Scott Fitzgerald).
Later, in grade school, it became girls and kissing, not to mention Magic the Gathering, Baseball cards, swimming, playing pool, and surfing.
Between the ages roughly of 12-14 I went through a brief but intense love affair with Christianity. I might add that I come from atheist stock; my father, a former chemistry and math professor and later computer scientist, was not, to say the least, a religious man. I attended church in these two years with my best friend James every Sunday, zealously. I met up one-on-one at age 13 with the pastor and told him I wanted to get baptized, which I did. (My father was horrified, yet attended the ceremony.)
Starting roughly around 13/14 and extending into my early twenties I was also, I’d argue, addicted to punk rock. Discovering The Ramones and The Sex Pistols circa 1995 blew my world wide open. Surfing remained an obsession—an aquatic addiction—roughly from age 10 to age 25. For a while I was even a sponsored competitive surfer. (I never did well; I was a good natural surfer; competition ruined the art of surfing for me).
I suppose you could also add in my addiction to videogames as a pre-teen, particularly N-64. (Golden-Eye 007 and Mario Kart being my favorite.)
But at age 17, I discovered The Magic Potion. Alcohol.
I was a blond-haired, brown-eyed, short, thin, innocent kid at a college-prep Catholic high school in Ojai, California, an hour and a half northeast of Los Angeles, where I was raised. In seventh grade I’d smoked some pot given to me and my surfer buddies by an older local longboarder.
But I’d never had a drink. The first time I did drink—a pint of Peppermint Schnapps passed around between me and two misfit chicks from school in the old woodshed in a backyard which reeked of muddy dirt, freshly mowed grass and was filled with hoes, rakes, shovels, etc—it changed my life instantly. I’ll never forget that first sip: Warmth radiated through my body like some sort of cosmic spiritual reawakening. I felt, for the very first time, as if I’d lost my spiritual virginity, as if I’d finally located the missing psychological puzzle piece in my soul. This elixir. This heavenly poison. This booze.
I blacked out that night. I don’t remember much. All I know is, despite the nasty, wretched hangover the following morning, I craved another drink.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to Michael Mohr's Sincere American Writing to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.