Guinevere Gets Sober

Recovery news, reviews and stories, by Jennifer Matesa.

On G’s Gratitude List: Men.

They’re unfathomable creatures, men. I don’t understand them (and, actually, I do).

I love most things about them: Their hair. Their skin. The fact that they’re bigger and stronger than I am, even the small ones. Their minds. Especially their voices. I love listening to men talk and sing.

Right now I’m listening to Tom Waits … he wrote this beautiful song.


Many of my feelings about men, of course, have to do with my father.

I was NOT daddy’s little girl. That was my little sister. My mother claimed me as her best friend, confidante, and ally—which might be why I think men are such incomprehensible, mysterious, unreachable, alluring beings. I originally wanted to have a girl, but I’m very, very glad I gave birth to a boy.

For most of his life Dad had a big beer-gut, and he was not hairy. (I like men with hair on their arms, their legs, their chests.) When I was growing up, I didn’t consider Dad handsome. I was kind of ashamed of the way he looked, actually, because he didn’t take care of his body.

But this is a picture of my dad in college.

Dad, senior photo, University of Pittsburgh, 1961.

(The flattop and skinny tie kill me.)

He was handsome. He was six-feet-two; he wore a size-12 shoe and a size 46-long coat. He was smart and dependable and spiritual and utterly unafraid of people, and he Read Books. He sang bass in the church choir.

Dad’s message was, “Everything will be OK.” Sometimes (especially when the Dow crashes, or when one of our kids has a real problem) my sister and I call each other and say, “Tell me what Daddy would say.”

His hugs were the best. A hug from Dad was like receiving a hug from the entire planet. Market shares could be tumbling, buildings could be burning, hurricanes could roar through and flood even uplands and when I hugged Dad, the world would be put back together and I’d be standing again on hard, dry ground.

His hands were large but finely boned, with square nails. Like a scientist.

He had blue-gray eyes. Like rain.

My son’s eyes are deep, dark Bournville brown, like my brother’s. His eyebrows are heavy and black, like Dad’s.

My son.

My son.


My son is one of a number of important men in my life. Another is Jacques, who lives in New York and has 30 years sober and who’s like a brother to me. And another is a tall geeky guy with a magnificent sense of humor, who rents out his car because he cycles everywhere within a 20-mile radius of his house. There’s yet another tall guy, with long hair and superb taste in music, whom I’ve known since the last days of post-punk. Both these tall guys are enjoying raising young women. … There’s also my son’s father, who gave our boy that dimple in his chin and who, in both his sons, has raised two good men.

I’ve learned many lessons from men that I could never have learned from women. My son has learned many things from the other men in his life that he could never have learned from me.

I’ve spent much of my life being afraid of men, as if they were bears in old-fashioned zoo cages. My mother taught me that if I trusted men, if I was nice to them, they’d eat me alive. Please Don’t Feed the Bears. My fear was actually not a fear of men but a fear of my own sexuality. One of the primary side-effects of using drugs was the depression of my sex-drive. When I was using, I didn’t look at men. On the whole, I didn’t notice other people. I was immured in my own bubble, within the curved walls of my skull.

Now that I’m sober, I notice men all the time. As a sober straight woman dedicated to honesty and integrity it’s important for me to pay attention to the fact that I have a serious attraction to these bears. Even if I don’t act on that attraction—because to act or not to act, and how to act, are choices recovery gives me—it makes life more alive.

Thank you, all you Bears, for being who you are.

#SoberSex 4: Tiny Ballerina Boobs.

Sober Sex Linda

Linda on getting sober and getting naked. 

People want to talk about sober sex but don’t know how. This is how.

One bite a day till Sex in Recovery releases 10/4.

For more stories and tools to help you tell your own story about pleasure, touch, intimacy, and sex without drinking or using, preorder now.

 

#SoberSex 3: Trauma And Recovery.

sexual-abuse

Amy on the ways sexual abuse, shame, and drug-use are intertwined.  

One teaser a day till Sex in Recovery releases 10/4.

For more stories and tools to help you tell your own story about pleasure, touch, sex and sobriety, preorder now.

The hashtag invites y’all to share a story. If you want to share without your name, comment anonymously here, or inbox me.

People want to talk about sex but don’t know how. This is the space <3

#SoberSex No. 2: “My Body Woke Up.”

Sex In Recovery meme 02

Elaine on having the first sober sex of her life at age 27.

One teaser a day till my book SEX IN RECOVERY releases 10/4.

For more stories and tools to think about pleasure, touch, sex and sobriety, preorder now.

The hashtag invites y’all to share your stories. If you want to share without your name, comment anonymously here, or inbox me.

People want to talk about sex but don’t know how. This is the space.

On Shooting Smack “Only” Twice.

Heroin_bottle

Bayer’s phenomenal invention, which they touted as a “cure” for morphine/laudanum addiction. As Vonnegut might have said, “And so it goes.”

Last Sunday my local paper published an epic piece about four people who OD’d on heroin last year. The writer ran a journalistic marathon following these survivors to see how they fared. That’s hard to do, it takes dedication, and I respect him for it. One subject is doing well. Two are struggling. And one, a 21-year-old man, fatally OD’d in his own bedroom.

His mother found him. She is suffering the grief of the world, and my heart is with her.

It’s important in journalism to get facts right.

They got two wrong.

First, he quoted a person with active addiction saying that if you don’t share needles and don’t OD, then “heroin is the perfect drug.” The perfect drug!! Well, hell. OK, it’s easier to control not sharing needles, but not overdosing?? Good luck with that. Easier (but not impossible) not to OD with pharma drugs, because you know what dose you’re getting. Heroin’s a total craps shoot.

It’s easy to justify this quotation by saying, “The subject said it—not me.” But it’s the journalist’s responsibility to check facts and provide perspective to skewed opinions.

For example, in terms of not being “perfect,” you may as well write sex off the list of stuff you’ll be doing as long as you’re shooting heroin. Also, women have a decent chance of going into early menopause, meaning they’ll wind up with thinning bones at, say, 35. This isn’t guaranteed because how many of us have heard stories of babies being born addicted to heroin?—another reason heroin ain’t “perfect” by a long shot.

Second, and this is the one that bothered me more: they said the autopsy showed the young man had “only” two track-marks on his arm, “which likely meant that the young man was no addict.” Holy Moses, Allah, Jesus and Buddha. The writer had just talked about how much pharma shit the guy had blown through for YEARS. His addiction to expensive pills he could no longer get was what drove him to the street to buy heroin.

These errors are such a sad commentary on the pervasive ignorance of the press and other powerful voices in our society about what addiction is and how it works. Hopefully in his next piece  the writer will reach out to some expert voices to check out his speculations.


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