DISCLAIMER: All in part one of If The Stars Still Silently Bless You.
A/N: See bottom* May be tough for some readers. Feel free to use your back button now.
THANKS: To Elizabeth, for your wonderful beta-ing skills, and I forgot to thank you the last time, so thanks again. Also, thanks to Laura, who won't read this but who told me everything I need to know because of her term paper last year. :)
THAT WHICH ONCE BROUGHT TEARS
I'm vaguely aware of the Macey's Thanksgiving Day parade in the background as I pour vodka into a small shot glass.
I hold the glass in my hand, trembling. I remember when I used to do this back in college. We'd smuggle alcohol into my friend's room and laugh as we recounted how we'd gotten past the RAs and the administration. Jake would pour the drink into paper cups. We'd toast to something, maybe an A on a paper, or to a new girlfriend, or a new boyfriend, and we'd all drink in unison.
It'd burn going down my throat. Everyone's eyes would be all squinched shut in pain. And then our eyes would open, and we'd all catch our breaths and wait until we were ready for the next shot.
I liked alcohol a lot, even then. Even though I hated it when I drank it, I loved it for how it made me feel, and I couldn't stop. And it would be an uphill battle.
Now, I'm sitting on the floor of my house, contemplating. We admitted we were powerless over alcohol, that our lives had become unmanageable. The glass feels so good in my hand, like old times. It feels both soothing and dangerous at the same time, both revolting and tempting.
I lift it to my lips and, just as I'm ready to toss it back in my mouth--
We came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
God, I think viciously, watching the Macey's parade carry on in the background. If God were here, I'd have my family this Thanksgiving. The tax bill would pass. If there was a true higher power, He'd protect Jed Bartlet.
Bile rises in my throat, and it takes me a minute to swallow. I raise the glass in an imaginary toast, a sarcastic toast to this God I'm supposed to recognize in all my meetings, and drink.
As before, I squinch my eyes shut and put a hand over my chest. It's almost instinctive. I watch Garfield float above the street on tv, and put the glass down, waiting.
We made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.
A few minutes later, I pour myself another glass. I need to stop. I need to stop. But I don't know how to. I feel a new sensation-- maybe guilt?-- rise up inside of me, and I toss another shot back into my mouth. The announcer's voice becomes louder, and maybe I'm imagining things, but he seems angry. As if I've let him down, too.
I feel strangely drawn to the vodka again, knowing it's a horrible idea, and drink again.
We made a fearless and searching moral inventory of ourselves.
This time it's softer in my mouth. Easier to get down. The volume of the tv seems louder, even though I haven't touched the volume control. The female announcer seems louder and angrier, too. God, oh God, oh God, I've made a mistake.
Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.
I have to call Jed. I have to ask him to help me. But what if he's so disgusted with my behavior he refuses to talk to me? What will Abbey say? Jed saved me from myself the last time. I let him down. And for that, I let myself have another drink. I have to call Noah's son. What's his name? God. I work with him everyday. John. Jack. Josh. Right. Josh.
We were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of our character.
God, I've betrayed You. Jenny, I know you don't love me anymore, but I've betrayed you, too. Mallory, oh, God, Mallory, you'll never look at me the same way. I can just imagine her sad eyes as she'll look at me. It's enough to put another shot in my glass. It seems as though someone else is pouring the glass for me, like I'm detached from myself.
We humbly asked Him to remove all our shortcomings.
God, please let me never do this again. Let me stop. Let them still love me...
We made a list of all the persons we've harmed, and were willing to make amends to them all.
And that's when I realize I'm losing conciousness.
****
I feel a loud slap on my face and wake up. In front of me is a very blurry Noah Lyman.
"Noah?" I mutter. Something isn't right. "I thought you were dead."
"I'm Josh," says Noah firmly. "I work for you, remember?"
Right. Noah's son. "Josh."
"Yeah. You're pretty lucky Margaret has a key to your apartment. She was frantic. She kinda guessed."
He walks over to my window, and a bright light flashes in my direction. My head hurts.
"You pulled the shade," he states firmly as I attempt to sit up. "You've had a pretty rough day."
I look around me, at shot glasses, and a nearly empty vodka bottle. Shit.
"Leo, what the hell happened?"
He steps over my legs and wanders into the kitchen.
"I don't know. I was feeling pretty lonely this holiday."
"You could have asked to stay with me. The whole staff came by. We watched football, and CJ and Donna complained the whole time about how boring the game is. You, at least, would have been more exciting than they were." He emerges with a large glass of water and gives it to me. "Drink."
I drink it gratefully. "I couldn't intrude on you like that."
"Don't you normally stay with the Bartlets, and, you know, let the President tell you the history of whatever strikes his fancy? In Latin?"
"Abbey didn't want me to come," I say, staring at the glass of water and feeling tears slide out of my eyes. I don't want Josh to look at me as being weak. I busy myself with drinking water as Josh walks over to the tv. Sports Night or some other sport news show is on, and he watches the commentary for a second before shutting it off.
"Something's wrong," he decides as he comes over and sits down next to me. "You and Abbey aren't getting along well. What's the matter?"
"Abbey, she--" I stop and use this moment to take another sip of water, vaguely realizing that I wouldn't even consider answering this question if I were sober. "She blamed me for Zoey's kidnapping. She blamed me for taking Shareef's plane down."
Josh pauses for a second and looks angry. "She was wrong."
"Yeah."
And then he turns to me, fully looking me in the eye for the first time since last night. "No, I don't think you really believe that, Leo."
I put the glass down and rub my face for a second. I'm momentarily speechless. And then the tears come. I hug Josh, realizing I must look like a wreck. I'm not like this. I'm supposed to be their leader. I'm supposed to be the liason between them and the President, and here I am, sobbing into the jacket of Noah's son. "I'd never intentially cause harm to Zoey, Josh. I love her like I love my own daughter. She's smart, she's funny, and it's been an honor watching her grow up. Josh, I-- I-- would take it back in a minute."
Josh begins to whisper, "I know. I know. I'm sorry."
We made direct amends to such people whenever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.
I pull back. "I'm sorry, Josh."
He stands, picks up the almost-finished vodka bottle, and venturs into the kitchen. A few seconds later I can hear the trickle of the drink splash into the sink. Then I can hear a clattle as he throws the bottle into the trash can.
Josh comes back into the room, and I can see a combination of concern and fury on his face. "You should have called me or Margaret when you were considering drinking. You know any one of us would have helped you."
I stand up, feeling like a man for the first time all day. I notice the sun is setting, and I make a move to hug Josh again. He stares at me for awhile, and then walks right into the hug. We embrace like brothers.
We continued to take personal inventory, and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.
"I was wrong, Josh," I say, finally pulling back again and sighing. This is hard for me to say. "Help me. I need you to help me get back on track. I mean, AA will do some of that for me. You know, I like to have someone, besides my sponsor,to tell when I screw up. Jed Bartlet was who I picked, but with Abbey on the warpath, I can't turn to him. Abbey won't let me, and I don't want to be the person who screws my best friend's marriage up. Will you be the person I tell?"
Josh looks at me, and I can see some shock in his eyes. And then it subsides to something that looks like pride. "Sure, Leo," he whispers.
"I don't deserve friends like you," I respond, finally feeling better, and not just because my head feels clearer.
"Oh, Leo, don't make me go into the man in the hole story," he says, eyes twinkling. He's still not smiling, but I can tell he's close.
"I won't."
"Hey, would you like to hang out at my apartment? I have a lot of left- overs. There's still, you know, a lot of turkey in my fridge. It's mostly not burnt."
I smile for the first time in a long time. God, this feels good. "Oh, I wouldn't want to intrude..."
"Stop being such a curmudgeon." Josh says, going over the the coatrack and holding up my jacket.
I take it from him and put it on. "Oh, I'll never stop being one of those. But I'll come over to your house, I guess."
"Happy Thanksgiving, Leo," Josh says as we walk out to his car.
"Yeah, I have plenty of things to be thankful for."
We sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.
A/N: The title of this story came from a particularly beautiful part of the Alcoholics Anonymous website that said the goal of meetings is to get the members to laugh at things that used to make them cry.
Also: It's important to note that alcoholism is not a moral issue, but a psychological or mental issue. Recovered alcoholics are expected to relapse at least three times throughout their lives.
Check out for more information.
Happy Thanksgiving.
A/N: See bottom* May be tough for some readers. Feel free to use your back button now.
THANKS: To Elizabeth, for your wonderful beta-ing skills, and I forgot to thank you the last time, so thanks again. Also, thanks to Laura, who won't read this but who told me everything I need to know because of her term paper last year. :)
THAT WHICH ONCE BROUGHT TEARS
I'm vaguely aware of the Macey's Thanksgiving Day parade in the background as I pour vodka into a small shot glass.
I hold the glass in my hand, trembling. I remember when I used to do this back in college. We'd smuggle alcohol into my friend's room and laugh as we recounted how we'd gotten past the RAs and the administration. Jake would pour the drink into paper cups. We'd toast to something, maybe an A on a paper, or to a new girlfriend, or a new boyfriend, and we'd all drink in unison.
It'd burn going down my throat. Everyone's eyes would be all squinched shut in pain. And then our eyes would open, and we'd all catch our breaths and wait until we were ready for the next shot.
I liked alcohol a lot, even then. Even though I hated it when I drank it, I loved it for how it made me feel, and I couldn't stop. And it would be an uphill battle.
Now, I'm sitting on the floor of my house, contemplating. We admitted we were powerless over alcohol, that our lives had become unmanageable. The glass feels so good in my hand, like old times. It feels both soothing and dangerous at the same time, both revolting and tempting.
I lift it to my lips and, just as I'm ready to toss it back in my mouth--
We came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.
God, I think viciously, watching the Macey's parade carry on in the background. If God were here, I'd have my family this Thanksgiving. The tax bill would pass. If there was a true higher power, He'd protect Jed Bartlet.
Bile rises in my throat, and it takes me a minute to swallow. I raise the glass in an imaginary toast, a sarcastic toast to this God I'm supposed to recognize in all my meetings, and drink.
As before, I squinch my eyes shut and put a hand over my chest. It's almost instinctive. I watch Garfield float above the street on tv, and put the glass down, waiting.
We made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.
A few minutes later, I pour myself another glass. I need to stop. I need to stop. But I don't know how to. I feel a new sensation-- maybe guilt?-- rise up inside of me, and I toss another shot back into my mouth. The announcer's voice becomes louder, and maybe I'm imagining things, but he seems angry. As if I've let him down, too.
I feel strangely drawn to the vodka again, knowing it's a horrible idea, and drink again.
We made a fearless and searching moral inventory of ourselves.
This time it's softer in my mouth. Easier to get down. The volume of the tv seems louder, even though I haven't touched the volume control. The female announcer seems louder and angrier, too. God, oh God, oh God, I've made a mistake.
Admitted to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.
I have to call Jed. I have to ask him to help me. But what if he's so disgusted with my behavior he refuses to talk to me? What will Abbey say? Jed saved me from myself the last time. I let him down. And for that, I let myself have another drink. I have to call Noah's son. What's his name? God. I work with him everyday. John. Jack. Josh. Right. Josh.
We were entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of our character.
God, I've betrayed You. Jenny, I know you don't love me anymore, but I've betrayed you, too. Mallory, oh, God, Mallory, you'll never look at me the same way. I can just imagine her sad eyes as she'll look at me. It's enough to put another shot in my glass. It seems as though someone else is pouring the glass for me, like I'm detached from myself.
We humbly asked Him to remove all our shortcomings.
God, please let me never do this again. Let me stop. Let them still love me...
We made a list of all the persons we've harmed, and were willing to make amends to them all.
And that's when I realize I'm losing conciousness.
****
I feel a loud slap on my face and wake up. In front of me is a very blurry Noah Lyman.
"Noah?" I mutter. Something isn't right. "I thought you were dead."
"I'm Josh," says Noah firmly. "I work for you, remember?"
Right. Noah's son. "Josh."
"Yeah. You're pretty lucky Margaret has a key to your apartment. She was frantic. She kinda guessed."
He walks over to my window, and a bright light flashes in my direction. My head hurts.
"You pulled the shade," he states firmly as I attempt to sit up. "You've had a pretty rough day."
I look around me, at shot glasses, and a nearly empty vodka bottle. Shit.
"Leo, what the hell happened?"
He steps over my legs and wanders into the kitchen.
"I don't know. I was feeling pretty lonely this holiday."
"You could have asked to stay with me. The whole staff came by. We watched football, and CJ and Donna complained the whole time about how boring the game is. You, at least, would have been more exciting than they were." He emerges with a large glass of water and gives it to me. "Drink."
I drink it gratefully. "I couldn't intrude on you like that."
"Don't you normally stay with the Bartlets, and, you know, let the President tell you the history of whatever strikes his fancy? In Latin?"
"Abbey didn't want me to come," I say, staring at the glass of water and feeling tears slide out of my eyes. I don't want Josh to look at me as being weak. I busy myself with drinking water as Josh walks over to the tv. Sports Night or some other sport news show is on, and he watches the commentary for a second before shutting it off.
"Something's wrong," he decides as he comes over and sits down next to me. "You and Abbey aren't getting along well. What's the matter?"
"Abbey, she--" I stop and use this moment to take another sip of water, vaguely realizing that I wouldn't even consider answering this question if I were sober. "She blamed me for Zoey's kidnapping. She blamed me for taking Shareef's plane down."
Josh pauses for a second and looks angry. "She was wrong."
"Yeah."
And then he turns to me, fully looking me in the eye for the first time since last night. "No, I don't think you really believe that, Leo."
I put the glass down and rub my face for a second. I'm momentarily speechless. And then the tears come. I hug Josh, realizing I must look like a wreck. I'm not like this. I'm supposed to be their leader. I'm supposed to be the liason between them and the President, and here I am, sobbing into the jacket of Noah's son. "I'd never intentially cause harm to Zoey, Josh. I love her like I love my own daughter. She's smart, she's funny, and it's been an honor watching her grow up. Josh, I-- I-- would take it back in a minute."
Josh begins to whisper, "I know. I know. I'm sorry."
We made direct amends to such people whenever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.
I pull back. "I'm sorry, Josh."
He stands, picks up the almost-finished vodka bottle, and venturs into the kitchen. A few seconds later I can hear the trickle of the drink splash into the sink. Then I can hear a clattle as he throws the bottle into the trash can.
Josh comes back into the room, and I can see a combination of concern and fury on his face. "You should have called me or Margaret when you were considering drinking. You know any one of us would have helped you."
I stand up, feeling like a man for the first time all day. I notice the sun is setting, and I make a move to hug Josh again. He stares at me for awhile, and then walks right into the hug. We embrace like brothers.
We continued to take personal inventory, and when we were wrong promptly admitted it.
"I was wrong, Josh," I say, finally pulling back again and sighing. This is hard for me to say. "Help me. I need you to help me get back on track. I mean, AA will do some of that for me. You know, I like to have someone, besides my sponsor,to tell when I screw up. Jed Bartlet was who I picked, but with Abbey on the warpath, I can't turn to him. Abbey won't let me, and I don't want to be the person who screws my best friend's marriage up. Will you be the person I tell?"
Josh looks at me, and I can see some shock in his eyes. And then it subsides to something that looks like pride. "Sure, Leo," he whispers.
"I don't deserve friends like you," I respond, finally feeling better, and not just because my head feels clearer.
"Oh, Leo, don't make me go into the man in the hole story," he says, eyes twinkling. He's still not smiling, but I can tell he's close.
"I won't."
"Hey, would you like to hang out at my apartment? I have a lot of left- overs. There's still, you know, a lot of turkey in my fridge. It's mostly not burnt."
I smile for the first time in a long time. God, this feels good. "Oh, I wouldn't want to intrude..."
"Stop being such a curmudgeon." Josh says, going over the the coatrack and holding up my jacket.
I take it from him and put it on. "Oh, I'll never stop being one of those. But I'll come over to your house, I guess."
"Happy Thanksgiving, Leo," Josh says as we walk out to his car.
"Yeah, I have plenty of things to be thankful for."
We sought through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.
A/N: The title of this story came from a particularly beautiful part of the Alcoholics Anonymous website that said the goal of meetings is to get the members to laugh at things that used to make them cry.
Also: It's important to note that alcoholism is not a moral issue, but a psychological or mental issue. Recovered alcoholics are expected to relapse at least three times throughout their lives.
Check out for more information.
Happy Thanksgiving.