I was thinking of those old werewolf movies (the ones before the flattering Twilight series), where an average guy is minding his own business in a dark alley and gets bitten by an infected wolf. He sees a full moon and suddenly hair sprouts from his knuckles, his jaw elongates and he screams as his back arches into an unanticipated, lupine hunch. He, and it is always a “he” in the old movies, usually runs into the woods howling, where he tears apart some townsfolk, who are making love in a copse – the very definition of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
In the morning our man wakes looking like his old self, but he’s covered in gore and having trouble piecing together the events of the night before. Remind you of anything? I did some beastly things when I was drinking and the metaphor of the werewolf with a blackout is a bit too close for comfort.
In fact, I have described my drunken antics using monster metaphors (good band name) before. I have been dubbed as the twosome, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde by my ex-husband, and I have used the Kraken, a dragon, Godzilla and a ghost to describe the ill effects even one drink has on my deportment.
The other day my friend Tall Girl was telling me a story and she said, “It brought back the reminder of over 35 years of alcohol-fueled bad choices, and underscored how remarkable the transformation is from alcoholic to recovering alcoholic.” That is what got me thinking of werewolves…
But what if we were to play the movie in reverse? That’s exactly what recovery feels like to me. The reversal of all the horrible consequences of hairy-knuckled alcohol. The howl is silenced, the sharp teeth retract and we walk upright once again.
The wrong place at the wrong time… is that a baby in the werewolf’s mouth?
