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Time passes strangely, in Recalled Overwatch. So much of what they are doing is familiar to Angela, is so similar to the way she spent so many other years of her life with the original organization that it all blurs together, after a while. There are less people, certainly, new and different faces, and she does far less research than she used to do, but in the middle of a mission, none of that matters. Busy as she is, time slips away from her, weeks passing into months and now into years, and still, she is here. Never did she plan on this, plan on staying with them, not after the last time—but she has. She has, and she has made a home here.
Yet, despite the sameness of the work, despite the ways in which one year bleeds into another, much is changing for her, too, and quickly. This time three years ago, Angela was only just warming to the idea that she might stay in the Recall, and beginning to think of Fareeha as a friend, as someone whom she could trust; two years ago, she had only just admitted to herself that she was capable of attraction to women, and begun to date Fareeha; a year ago, the two of them began to call one another partners, in the romantic sense, having cohabited, by then, for a few months, and begun to build a life which they could not imagine without one another; and now? Now, she is planning on proposing to Fareeha, just as soon as she is certain she has picked out the perfect ring.
By any standard, Angela’s life is quite different, now, than it used to be, is very changed in recent years, despite the way individual days melt into each other, in her memories. She is not the woman she was three years ago, is not even the woman she was one year ago, and that is a good thing, it is. Her changes have, after all, been for the better.
Even this one, the one which, presently, is causing her so much anxiety—this year, for the first time in her adult life, she is going to be sober for Passover.
It feels strange to think, will be stranger, even, to say. She is not, after all, sober in the broader sense, still drinks sometimes, when she wants to, even if she stops, now, after a single glass of wine, but that is not much to drink, and is only on good days, few and far between. Once, she drank more, and more often, did so when she could not sleep, or with Jesse and Baptiste after a particularly difficult mission, or on difficult anniversaries, and sometimes—not often, but sometimes—she overindulged, as she did last year.
(It is difficult for her, this Holy Day, is hard to celebrate what it means to have survived something as a people, when so often she has felt so guilty about her own survival, has often wondered what it would have been, to have changed places with her parents, her friends, her patients whom she has lost. It is difficult to be grateful, to thank God for her survival, when it has hurt her so dearly—and if she is meant to be drinking anyway, it is easy, too easy, for the requisite four glasses to become 5, become 6, become 7.)
It was not healthy—is not—and Fareeha told her as much, even if she did not want to hear it, has trouble admitting it to herself even now. Alcohol helping her on certain Holy Days, on anniversaries, in specific social situations does not mean she needed it, did not make her dependent. If she did not have it, she did not suffer withdrawal, and in the end, she could cope with such situations sober, if she had to. Never did she meet the criteria for substance abuse, not in the medical sense, and so she told herself, for many years, that such being the case meant that she was fine, was healthy, was being responsible, but seeing Fareeha’s concern, hearing it, it became hard to argue that diagnostic criteria were all that mattered.
They are not. What matters, too, is this: she drank almost only when her mood was already bad, excluding the occasional glass of wine with dinner, was using alcohol as something to soothe herself, to quiet her thoughts, as a numbing agent, and that she cannot justify, even to herself. What matters is this: it was not healthy, even if it could not be said to be properly disordered. What matters is this: she was using alcohol to avoid her problems, her emotions, and that can only be done for so long, is ultimately harmful. It took her time to admit it, after Fareeha pointed it out, but it is true: what she was doing was not good for her.
So she has cut back greatly, no longer drinks unless she is specifically in a very good mood, someone else she is with is drinking, and circumstances call for it. Even then, she limits herself to one drink, and only the one; she never had a problem with overindulging when happy, but she does not want to cultivate one now. It is not total sobriety, because like this, she is managing just fine, and limiting herself in this way has been subtle enough that only really Jesse has had to find out about it, with the rest of their team none the wiser, their confidence in her as high as ever, but it still has not been easy for her, has been a serious adjustment. Fareeha, of course, has been supportive, having only recently kicked her own habit of smoking with Angela’s help—but still, she struggles, sometimes.
It might be simpler, she thinks, to cut out drinking entirely, but wine holds a special place in several Holy Days, and she does not want to give up on celebrating properly forever, wants to be able to get herself to the point where she can say, again, that she is able to drink healthily, and not worry too much about her motivations for drinking. Total abstinence may work for some people, but too much of Angela’s life has already been defined by extremes, and she thinks that here, she would be best served by seeking moderation, by reaching a point where she can once again fully participate in Passover, and Purim, and every Shabbat dinner. She does not want, anymore, for her solution to every problem in her life to be excising it completely, or running away from it.
It is a surgeon’s solution, to be sure, cutting away at everything which ails her, but it has not served her well in life. Too many bridges, she burned too completely, and now, having returned to Overwatch—to people and a place she swore she would never, ever let herself care about again—she sees the ways in which it hurt her, to do so, even as she did it to protect herself. She does not want, any longer, to do that to herself, does not want for things to feel all right or all wrong, does not want that for herself, and does not want that for her relationship with Fareeha, not when her partner already has reason to fear being abandoned, has known what it is for the people she loves in life to leave suddenly. So moderation is what Angela will try this time, at least at first. If it fails her, there is always abstinence, is always the option to cut out drinking entirely, but she wants to prove to herself that something lies between the extremes at which she has so often found herself, that there can be restraint without denial.
(She has always been so good at denial, used to pride herself on it, on how easy fasting was for her, how completely she threw herself into her work, how little she needed for herself to survive. It felt good, to not need things, having grown up with only herself to rely upon, after her parents died, felt good to know that she could survive without joy, without love, without rest, but just as overindulgence is unhealthy, so, too, was this. For all that her work in preserving life was important, she was not living her own, and she sees that now, sees all the ways in which such denial hurt her, even as she pretended it did not, and she knows, too, that joy is important, in fulfilling the mitzvot, knows that in her pride, and in her desperate attempts to shield herself from pain, she ignored that. Still, even knowing, now, what that took from her, knowing what she did to herself in the name of self-discipline, it would be so easy for her to fall back into that habit, would be so simple to just say that she cannot handle drinking, and never do it again—and simple, too, to say the same about everything she loves, and fears losing. It would feel good, feel right, even if it made her miserable. For her, therefore, abstinence is a dangerous proposition.)
Every other year of her adult life, she has had wine during Seder, as is proper, and one day, if she does this right, if she learns what it is to be temperate, she will do it again, but this year she will not. To not drink will feel wrong, she knows already, but she knows, too, that to drink, knowing it would be a problem for her, would be more wrong still. Pikuach nefesh has been extended to one’s health, to less immediate life and death consequence, and she has spoken with her rabbi about this already, knows him to be in agreement that not drinking, if it will protect her, is the greater mitzvah here.
Yet, even so, she wishes it were not the case. For all that she has wanted control in her life, for all that she has said that she does everything right, is as healthy as is possible, is capable of great restraint—this proves she is fallible as anyone else, is not perfect, has not always known when to stop herself. Others at the table will see her not drinking and they will know this about her, will know that she has failed to live up to the standards she set for herself, will know that the self-denial she thought kept her safe, protected her for all these years, was not so strong as she needed it to be. Whether they know that she felt that way about herself or not is immaterial, here, what matters is the feeling of being exposed, of her failings and insecurities being on display.
No one at base knows about this, save for Fareeha and Jesse, and she knows, of course, that nothing which happens in front of members of her shul will make it back to base, yet it frightens her nonetheless, having this knowledge out in the open. She needs for her team to trust her with their lives, needs them to know she is reliable, and that her advice to them is sound, and she worries that if they knew, it would seem, to them, like hypocrisy, every time she asked them to cut back on their own drinking, or to quit smoking, worries too that they might think she drank on the job or on call—which she never did, not once—and that it will erode their confidence in her, in her decision making. There is a reason she has wanted to seem infallible, and not all of it has been her own hubris, nor her desire to protect herself; it is so that she can protect her team. Admitting vulnerability and fallibility is to admit, too, that she cannot be perfect in protecting them, and that scares her more than most anything else.
Substance abuse, many people insist, is never about the actual substance, is about an issue that a person is attempting to treat with said substance. Once, Angela might have argued otherwise, might have pointed out that neurochemical dependence is a physiological process, not a psychological one, but now it is far harder for her to pretend that the mind and the body are not linked, as she finds herself facing what it means to her, to have had a problem with it.
She does not want to think about it, in truth, wants to run from this, too. Privacy, she might call it, her decision to hide this, and that is true, in part, because she is a private person, both by nature and as a result of being taught discretion as a virtue, and a kind of dignity. Her private life does not belong to anyone else, is one of the few things she keeps for herself, when she gives the rest to her work, to saving others and the business of healing the world, but this is not only privacy, she knows that. What she feels for Fareeha is private, because it is something which brings her joy, and she does not want that spoiled by the rest of the world knowing it, having an opinion on her relationship, and what it ought to mean for her for her identity. This is not that—this is shame.
While guilt can be appropriate, can be helpful, can be necessary, shame is something else entirely, and she knows it would be wrong of her to try and hide this for such a reason. In the name of privacy, and discretion, she can avoid talking with her coworkers about her drinking, because it is not relevant to their work, never has been, but she cannot skip the Seder because she feels ashamed. It was convenient, her being away on a mission during Purim due to an unforeseeable delay, but that cannot happen always. Happenstance will not prevent her, this time, from confronting this, even if she wishes it would.
For months, she knew this day was coming, and so she thinks she should not be worrying now, with only hours to go. Yet worry she does. It is one thing not to drink—Aster is pregnant, and certainly will not be, so she knows it will not be an inconvenience to Cima, who is hosting—but it is another thing to not drink for the reason she is, and she knows that sooner or later, people will realize why she is not drinking. No one will ask her to explain herself, if she does not drink this year, or the next, or the year after that, but how much she had last year cannot have gone unnoticed, and so to be conspicuously sober in the years following paints a clear picture.
In truth, the problem is not anyone else knowing. She knows that sober Seders exist, has known people who have gone to them. What is difficult for her is only her own shame, and that will not be made better by avoiding this situation, will only be compounded by secrecy and time, as so many things are. Best to go now, and to get it over with.
As much as she does not want to, Angela will go. It is the best thing for her, and it is what she ought to do. Even if she did not believe so, she does not truly feel it is an option to stay home, not really, considers observance to be an important part of her life and her identity, one for which there is no substitute.
Knowing that this is for the best does little to alleviate her anxiety in the day immediately preceding Passover, however, and it is noticeable, at least to Fareeha. By now, her partner knows her well enough to spot her little tells and in this case, her worrying is not particularly subtle.
“You know,” Fareeha tells her, “You’re the only person I’ve ever known who taps their fingers in both directions.”
“I’m sorry,” Angela did not notice her fingers were tapping, was too absorbed in her thoughts to remember that she and Fareeha are, ostensibly, meant to be working right now. Requisition forms are due on the first of the month, and they decided to make the tedious task slightly better by filling them out together—or, rather, separately, while sitting in the same room. Angela finished hers more quickly than she anticipated, and her mind has been wandering since. Fareeha however, had more work to do. “I hope I didn’t disturb you.”
The beads in Fareeha’s hair catch the light as she shakes her head, “No,” says she, setting down her pen, “I’m nearly done, and I can finish the rest tomorrow morning. There’s something disturbing you, though.”
Although both of them know it not to be true, Angela says, “I might have just been bored.”
Pointedly, Fareeha looks at her. Clearly, such is not the case. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Of course Angela does not—if she had, she would have answered Fareeha’s question directly—but Fareeha is not really asking that, is instead asking if Angela is willing to, for her.
“I’m nervous,” says she. “About Passover.”
At that, Fareeha frowns, leans forwards in her seat, such that if Angela wanted, she could easily reach across the table to touch her. “Is it anything in specific?”
She never has explained to Fareeha why it bothers her, the narrative, the ways in which it is difficult, still, for her to feel grateful about having been a survivor. It sounds wrong, whenever she tries to put it all to words, sounds like she does not want to have lived, and she does, she does, even if she feels guilty that she survived the Crisis and others did not. She is grateful for having lived, but still, she wishes that she did not have to say that at all, wishes for a world where so many others did not have to die, cannot accept that she was in any way more deserving than the other children she knew, all those years ago. She lived, and she alone, the oldest not-quite-son, and that is bitterer in her mouth than any herbs will ever be.
(And she wonders, sometimes, if, in fact, she is still a son, in God’s eyes—she hopes she is not. She hopes she is not, but she cannot know, and so it chafes, this reminder of whom once she was known to be. It was another name she answered by, the last Passover with her parents, when her father bid her ask the questions, and on anniversaries like this one, that name is a part of her still. Most other days, it falls away, but this brings it back, year after year.)
For Fareeha to worry is only natural, given that she does not know why this Holy Day in particular is a source of pain, and Angela wishes she could explain it, she does, wishes there were something she could say that could communicate the complexity of her feelings on the topic, but she never has been good at putting to words her emotions, and to add her faith and her gender on top of that—it feels impossible, still. One day, perhaps, she will have the words for it, but not now, not yet.
What she can explain is this, her more immediate worry, born of all those other, greater ones: “I’m not going to be drinking tomorrow.”
“I know.” They talked about it, the two of them; Fareeha had not wanted to assume that Angela would not drink, given that it is not her faith, and had not wanted to ask Angela to not do so, either, but she had worried, after last year, had asked if Angela had a plan, and was relieved to hear it. Even if she does not feel it her place to demand sobriety, particularly not under these circumstances, it is clear to Angela that Fareeha feels relieved knowing that it is what Angela has chosen for herself, in this instance. “Is it—are you worried about getting through it sober?”
Being surrounded by others who are drinking, Fareeha must know, is not as much of a concern; Angela has done that on multiple occasions in the months since she decided to change her own drinking habits, with good success. But the emotional trigger that Passover presents is something different, and Angela is forced to admit that, “I am, a little.”
“Only a little?”
Honesty, Angela knows, is for the best, even when she is not proud of the truth, “I’m more concerned about other people knowing.”
For a moment, Fareeha says nothing, either considering, or perhaps waiting for Angela to elaborate, and then she asks, “Are you worried they’ll say anything?”
By now, she is well aware of Angela’s desire for her personal life to not be a topic of discussion, and so this question makes sense but, “No.” Angela catches herself about to tap her fingers as she tries to think of a good response, a concise one. Unfortunately the only honest answer is that, “I’m ashamed.” She says it quietly, because it is difficult to voice even at a whisper.
(Embarrassed is not strong enough a word, does not get at the heart of what she is feeling—that this is a personal failing, somehow, and a moral one.)
Fareeha sucks in a breath, at that, audibly enough that Angela can hear it, but she does not respond immediately. That, Angela thinks, is fair; she would not know how to respond either.
“You shouldn’t be,” Fareeha tells her, finally, and holding up a hand, to stop the response she knows is coming, “I know, I know—you know that. But it's true.”
What else can Angela say? Yes, but I am? She has no other, better response, and so she looks down at her sweater, picks at an imaginary piece of lint at the end of one knit sleeve. There is nothing there—it is as pure white as the day she bought it.
“Would it be easier,” Fareeha asks, when it is clear that Angela has nothing more to say on the matter, “If I came with you?”
“What?” Angela looks up, then, searches Fareeha’s face for something and finds only the usual earnestness, and some concern. “You don’t want to do that.”
Fareeha shifts in her seat, a bit, admits, “You’re right. I’d be the odd man out, and it’d make me uncomfortable.” Whether she means in terms of her faith or the fact that she does not know any of Angela’s friends from shul is not clear—but in either case, Angela would understand. “But if you need me to—I can go, Angela. It's only one evening.”
“You shouldn’t feel obligated,” Angela says, although, she thinks, she herself would feel obligated, in this situation. “I’ll be okay.”
“You’re sure?” Fareeha does not sound doubtful, exactly, but Angela can understand why she would want to double check such a thing. Although she has tried to break the habit, insofar as her conversations with Fareeha are concerned, Angela has a tendency to instinctively refuse help.
But, “I am,” says she, because she is—she is. For Fareeha, she knows, she can endure this, for Fareeha, she can do what she must to be better, to be healthier, even if it is uncomfortable in the moment.
It worries her, still, the idea that she might have a drinking problem being made known to others. It makes her ashamed, to know others will see that, like the rest of them, she is not perfect, has not always had the control over her life that she wants, but she knows, too, that she will get through it. She will feel shame, and it will not be pleasant. She will want to drink, and know that it would be easy to do so. She will wish for the night to be over, so that she can go home, and say that it is done, and do it next year with less pain—but she will survive this, as she has survived so many other things. Shame is hardly the worst of all things, and to go home, at night, to a partner who loves her, to know that she is not causing Fareeha any undue stress, that is worth it.
So she will go to Seder, and she will not drink, and it will be hard, but next year, it will be easier. Next year, things will be better. Next year, she might be free of shame.
Leshanah haba’ah b’Yerushalayim.