You Are What You Read: So Where Do I Put the Recovery Literature?

If you want to know a little about someone without talking to them (and who wouldn’t choose this option?), you could do worse than scan their shelves.  It’s a good forensic tool for the amateur psychologist and general snoop.  And I’m judgmental; I admit it.  I’ll scorn your book choices if they seem too low-brow or just too few (assuming you’re not a Buddhist or something).  I don’t necessarily judge the guilty pleasure shelf or shelves.  We’ve all got those, be it trashy romances or sci fi/fantasy.  Everyone keeps a little erotica in the boudoir somewhere.

Of course, we all know that we’re judged by our books.  Books ceased long ago to be merely vessels of human communication and became objects that are cherished for themselves–witness those of us who collect first editions or signed copies that are hoarded, displayed, but never read (or read jealously by only the owner herself).  Books have always been capable of conferring status of one kind or another.  And at least as early as the Renaissance, when Gutenburg made it possible for the middle class to self-educate, became the way people could advertise which side their political/religious/intellectual bread was buttered.   In the 90’s, for instance, every would-be intellectual definitely had copies of Joyce’s Ulysses and Rushdie’s Satanic Verses proudly stacked somewhere in the living room.  I know of only one person who read the first without be forced to by a college professor.  And he joins me and one other person as the only people I know who have also read the second.

So when I go into people’s homes, I look for what’s on display.  The more education someone has, usually the more anxious s/he is about this necessary front-matter.  I know a couple–both of whom have PhDs–whose house is very telling in this respect.  Her doctorate is the humanities, his in the sciences.  It’s obvious who wears the public pants in the family, because all the correct novels and nonfiction are upstairs in the living room, and all his geeky manuals and sci fi are down in the basement (which got flooded a few times).  No one but close friends goes downstairs, mind you.

Self-conscious Christians are the worst in this respect.  The coffee table is always set with that big, fat bible on it.  Some of this breed like to display a very nice, white “guest” bible–like the towels in the half-bath for company.  While others proudly place a well-worn, dog-eared copy somewhere prominent.  It has the subtlety of a billboard, of course, and about as much of the same authentic spirituality.  Maybe they’re worried that, with the Rapture right around the corner, Jesus might just come knocking and wonder why it took Him a few minutes to find His book.

So, we know all this.  So now, fellow addicts-in-recovery:   where are we putting our recovery literature?  Most of my close friends and family know about my alcoholism and my efforts to recover, but what about people who just might be in the living room?  Neighbors?  Parents dropping children off for sleepovers?  Nope.  The living room is out.  I’m just not ready for that conversation.

The study seems appropriate, of course.  Ours doubles as a guest room.  It’s the kind of addition to the shelf that says, “Welcome to our home.  I’m sober.  Isn’t that reassuring tonight?”  But we actually do work in our study.  There’s something disconcerting about seeing Alcoholics Anonymous next to a copies of sociology textbooks and Strong’s Bible Concordance. Almost too compartmentalized.

My guess is that the bedroom will get a few votes.  Yep:  keep it there with the porn and the boxed set of The Lord of the Rings your girlfriend got you in college.  Isn’t this a personal matter, after all?  Close to your heart?  Like my autographed copy of Dorothy Allison’s first publication or my personal journals from college…  Well, yes… but if it’s there with the porn, aren’t we over-privatizing the issue?  It’s Alcoholics Anonymous, of course, but it’s always an open secret. Doesn’t the absence of recovery literature in at least a semi-public place indicate intense and self-destructive shame about something that ought to be celebrated and shared?

I have actually been to peoples’ houses who keep all their self-help stuff right out front–long shelf-fulls of handbooks and guides and recovery memoirs decorating the living room.  I can’t tell you how uncomfortable this makes me.  On the one hand, I am writhing with insecurity and a deep sense of unworthiness.  I will never be this sane, I think.  On the other, I remember what the people who own the house are actually like, and am struck by the simultaneous thought:  Have you people actually read this stuff, ’cause it doesn’t show…

Perhaps it is my southern upbringing that flinches at the sight of personal flaws being aired so publicly.  This embarrassment is joined in equal measure by a suspicion of anyone who makes a display of having (presumably) overcome such flaws.  But….

Wait.  I hear a pack of recovery folk buzzing in the background, dispensing very good, sage advice:  “Don’t worry about what other people think.  More importantly, why are you judging other people?  Keep your fork on your own plate!”  Perfectly true, sound wisdom there.  To get back to my but….

The fact is, these dumb little choices matter.  They matter because the conversations that might follow matter–just as they might when someone sees The Satanic Verses on the shelf.  They matter because someone coming over to my house might be struggling with an addiction and too afraid to say so to anyone other than someone who is open about her addiction.  They matter because people are cruel and very, very judgmental, and “worrying about my own stuff” certainly implies protecting myself from others’ stupidity and ignorance.  So, yes, these little things matter.

And after all this, I still don’t know where to put my books.  I think I will continue to be little self-conscious about them.  Right now, for instance, I have a copy of Kirkpatrick’s Turnabout in the downstairs bath, outside my study and bedroom.  What screwed up Freudian message is that sending?  Without going down the anal retentive/expulsive lane, I think the choice says, “hey, recovery is as much a part of my life as crapping and good hygiene.”  Disturbing?  Maybe.  Handy?  You bet!

But please:  tell me where YOUR books are!  (Please see the poll related to this post for more fun!)