Norse By Northwest
Okay. I will explain some things, but I will ask you to please leave your preconceived ideas and theories with me until I'm done. I'll return them when I'm finished, I promise.
Also, no chewing gum unless you brought enough for everybody.
For the purposes of today's lesson, we're going to need to climb in the Way Back Machine and travel back in time about 1200 years, to a region we affectionally call Northern Europe, and to a people we affectionally refer to as Vikings. That's a fairly contemporary term, by the way, but it'll serve our purpose.
The Vikings had a fascinating civilization, if you can excuse the pillaging and stuff. They were a hardy group, who liked to work hard and play hard. They also tended toward the domestic side, as hard as that is to believe. When a Viking raiding party came to town and did their thing, not a few of them would sometimes look around, like what they saw, and set down roots.
Where I live, we refer to people like this as Californians, but now I'm getting off subject.
My point is, many of us probably have some Viking blood running through our veins. Just something to keep in mind when you have an urge to pillage.
There was once a Viking by the name of Erik the Irritable. Erik had a lot of bad days, and most of them had to do with his relationship with Ingrid, his mate. Ingrid was also a Viking, of course, and had her own sources of irritation, most of which involved Erik, although occasionally she had some serious PMS stuff going on.
So Erik the Irritable would have enough of Ingrid and head outside, wineskin in hand, looking for a little peace and quiet. He'd plop himself under a tree, suck down some of that fermented goodness, and basically have a little pity party until he felt no pain. Then he'd snooze, dreaming about discovering America, and in the morning his problems would be over.
Because Erik would be a Viking Popsicle. It was cold there in Northern Europe.
Now let's look at Leif the Lush. Leif was something of a legend, even among Vikings, for his ability to consume large quantities of alcohol. Leif had a hollow leg. Leif could drink the entire village under the table, which is not where you wanted to be if you were around Leif, by the way, since he tended to relieve himself first and look second.
When Leif got into a domestic snit, he too would grab his booze and head for the hills, sit under a tree, push Erik's lifeless body aside, and drown his sorrows. The difference being that Leif would eventually drain that wineskin, yawn, manage to get to his feet and stumble home, where he would amuse his mate with Viking knock-knock jokes until he passed out, possibly doing a little procreating somewhere along the way.
Leif was, in other words, the first alcoholic. Somebody had to be.
This is all speculation, of course, but it's not without merit.
See, Leif didn't just have a high tolerance for alcohol, which happens. And he certainly wasn't the first or last to abuse booze. What made Leif different was his brain. Leif's frontal cortex, where the pleasure pathway lies, had a peculiar structure that was anything but normal. His neurotransmitters were wacky. His uptake valves were always on break.
His brain sincerely believed that alcohol was good for it, and it acted accordingly. It pumped out all those good mood regulators -- norepinephrine, seratonin, dopamine, etc. -- in record numbers. Leif, as a matter of fact, did not really feel normal unless he was loaded, because that's what his brain was telling him.
His stomach, heart, kidneys, and particularly his liver would eventually have a say in the matter. Somebody always has to be the party pooper. But for a fair amount of time, enough time to pass his unusual genetic structure on to some of his offspring, Leif drank his way through life.
You might be surprised at how many people do this.
Alcoholics have a neurological condition that has usually a well-defined onset, recognizable symptoms, and a predictable course. It is also
- Primary
- Chronic
- Progressive, and
- Fatal
In other words, it's a disease.
This annoys some people, of course, and for very understandable reasons, although the ones who like to argue the "disease" label make me smile. Like they were saying Australia is an island, not a continent, or that an avacado is a vegetable and not a fruit. This is semantic windmill tilting. Alcoholism is a disease because the people who define diseases say it is. Including the AMA and the WHO. But hey. You're welcome to your opinion.
I have lots to say about this, and I'm sure I eventually will, but let's just leave this discussion with some hard numbers. It's estimated that upwards of 30 million people in North America alone are alcoholics. Most of them will die from their disease, painful, awful deaths. You don't want to wish this kind of death on your worst enemy.
There is no cure, either, no surgery or medication. Maybe someday, but I'm not holding my breath.
The good news is that there is treatment. It requires discipline, and education, and most importantly willingness to surrender and to change, but it can be done. Lots of people have done it. Including me.
I was lucky. I knew my family history. I recognized compulsion when I saw it. I had resources, and family and friends who loved me.
And I might not make it. The odds are against me, actually. In order to even the playing field, I have to work on it every day, make conscious contact with a higher power, have a spiritual awakening, work a program, memorize as many cliches as I can, etc. If I can't, I will die, sooner than later. I was giving myself at most 10 years, probably less.
So this is on my mind. That, and autumn, and family, and faith, and possibilities.
And Vikings. You never know. 
8:02:32 AM 
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