Words and photo by Karen Macdonald
Who would have thought that there is a whole science and skill to the art of crushing beer cans to fit in the orange recycling bin?
It has to do with quantity, you see.
If you are merely putting a modest dozen or so cans into the bin, then there’s nothing to it. However, if you are doing the job on a grand, gargantuan scale, like 193 in a fortnight, then some planning is required. After trying various techniques, I have concluded that the most effective way to fit this number of cans into the bin requires that I, first of all, don a pair of strong black rubber gloves and put down a layer of cardboard and an old kitchen towel on the floor.
Eventually, it becomes clear that flattening them using thumbs is enough, giving an expert twist to minimise the space each can occupies. Previously I used my heel, but this involves standing and standing to crush 193 cans is an arduous task. I’m a bit of a couch potato.
I used to crush the cans out beside the recycling bins at the back door for a while; in the evenings; when no one was around. I stamped on each one till it was as flat as a pancake (thinner even!!), and each time I visualised crushing a vile little drink demon, exterminating it into total oblivion. If only it were that simple!
I had to stop when my neighbour came back to live there. His house was a building site for a whole year after a fire on his roof. My neighbour knows all about why this 80-year-old grandmother would be crushing dozens of beer cans outside her back door, but somehow I don’t want to draw attention to it, and it’s a noisy occupation. Somehow I want to be discreet about it.
This is because of that other demon that pervades society. The demon of Stigma. Stigma is a whole topic on its own, and I’ll write about that another day.
I look up “can crushing gadget” on Google, and discover that I could indeed purchase (on Prime, even!) such a gadget, wall mounted. I could have it tomorrow!! But that would be admitting that this ghastly job would be going to go on for a long time, and I remain stubbornly optimistic that this will not go on for much longer. After all, three years ago, God promised me that things would get better, and it’s my faith that keeps me going through the heartbreak and shattering weariness of this situation.
And let’s be factual about it: Neil IS making progress, slowly, slowly and often imperceptibly. He has not taken whisky for 11 weeks and 5 days. He may still be drinking 13 or 14 cans of beer a day, but nowadays he’s never … how shall I describe it? … perhaps “blotto” would be a good word. Nowadays, he’s “under the influence” maybe, but coherent and “himself”, and always our lovely, caring, sensitive, highly intelligent and infinitely beloved son.
The fact is that Neil is suffering from the dual illness of mental health breakdown as a result of acute anxiety and stress, along with the neurological disorder of alcohol use disorder. This illness has been going on for many, many years and is only now being treated effectively, but it’s a very long and painstaking journey, and as with any journey it has mountains and valleys, peaks and troughs, and daily heartbreak, but learning and understanding ever more on the way.
I use the term “alcohol use disorder” deliberately. It used to be called alcoholism, but science has moved on and research has shown much about neurological behaviours that were a mystery until only thirty years ago. That’s something else I’ll write about another day.
Enough for now. I’m away to crush some beer cans.