Andy Drinkard, Complicated and Tender Soul

Andy Drinkard was not the kind of man who is easy to figure out. He was, we might say, the polar opposite of the so-called basic person. He was complicated, many layered, and full of internal conflicts. And yet – precisely because of this, I think – he was also eminently relatable, exquisitely sympathetic, and immensely tender toward anyone and everyone who is on this journey of life. Andy was a man beloved by many, known by relatively few, and understood by even fewer. While not foolish enough to style myself in the latter category, I did come to know Andy during his all-too-short stay on the earth, and our relationship made a strong and lasting impression on me. I would like to say a bit about that here, and have the sincere and honest hope that those who know Andy more intimately than I do would forgive me for my errors in perception and recollection. If there is one thing that Andy loved, it was when people spoke and engaged truthfully and transparently, and that is what I intend to do here.

First of all, Andy, I miss you. I miss the conversations on the front porch (if we could deign to call that concrete slab a “porch”) with you late into the evenings, looking at the stars and talking philosophy, theology, psychology, romance, and nihilism – in a word, exploring life. I miss seeing you get all excited about psychotherapy and the ways in which your therapeutic work could help others to grow and develop. (You were, from first to last, a helper of the weak and downtrodden. Me, being decidedly more selfish, always admired this about you.) I miss your corny and witty humor, your way of bringing a group together through a joke or a story. I miss the invitations to your parents’ lake house in SC and the laid back time we spent there. I miss your practical wisdom and your open-mindedness. I miss your constant encouragement to me as I floundered around amidst an internal tug-of-war between faith and unbelief. I miss your affection for animals. I miss your self-deprecating way. Most of all, I miss you, and your companionship.

I wish you were still here. Although I still have my doubts about life after life on earth, from time to time I find myself talking out loud to you, hoping that you hear me. I believe that, if you do, you are undoubtedly smiling. I sometimes imagine that you might say, “Tom, keep trusting in the process, keep trusting in the journey; you are on a good path.” And it makes me smile to think this, both because I believe that you would say it, and also because I believe that it is true. You walked with me through some of the most emotionally unsettled years of my life, Andy, and were a friend every step of the way. I am so grateful to you for that.

No honest reminiscence about Andy’s life would be well-rounded without mention of the demons that this man grappled with on a daily basis. Andy, born with a congenital defect that changed the shape of his bone structure from the so-called normal way to an abnormal one, was constantly racked with feelings of inferiority as he found himself rejected, on the physical and sensual plane, by various objects of his desire over the years. He also struggled mightily with the existential questions, no doubt stemming from the most basic questions of God – Why did you create me like this? Why all the suffering? – but expanding to reach the deep and nuanced recesses of his beautiful mind and all the genuine doubts and curiosities that have their origins there. Finally, like myself, Andy was a person with an addictive disorder, who, though he knew it deeply and personally, couldn’t quite bring himself to accept the implications of his condition, taking occasional refuge in the bottle (or two) of wine, or the doctor’s prescription for one kind of pill or the other. I don’t judge Andy for this (I don’t believe, at least), because these were his unhealthy escapes from a reality that Huxley rightly described as “something from which most people find a need to take frequent holiday.” In this respect, Andy was eminently human, though some of his forms of escape were dangerous and self-destructive.

I will never forget the day that I received a call from Andy’s partner, Jen, informing me that he had passed away. I wasn’t able to answer the call when it came in, but I was listening to the voicemail as I rode in the front passenger’s seat of a van in which my colleague and I were, ironically, transporting clients from our addictions treatment center to a bowling alley for an afternoon of sober recreation. I remember the chills going down my spine, the tears, and then the empty feeling that ensued. And I remember being notably grateful to be in a vehicle with 10-12 other alcoholics and drug addicts, men who, like myself and Andy, could understand the burden of obsession, the pull of compulsion, and the painful remorse of the aftermath of an addictive binge. If I am not mistaken, I shared the sadness with my colleague, as well as with the patients, and I don’t doubt that that story is still lodged somewhere in their hearts – hopefully in their now sober hearts – as the remembrance of it is lodged in mine.

Speaking of that addictions treatment center, there is one final story that I would like to tell. One fine spring afternoon, I found myself delivering the lecture to an auditorium of approximately 100 of our patients. While I no longer recall the topic of the lecture, something moved me to allude to Andy and his journey during my speaking. Though I never mentioned his name, I spoke animatedly about my former roommate, friend, and classmate, and how beautiful (and, at the same time, tortured) his spirit was. I spoke of his relationship with substances, and his desire for freedom. I spoke of his death, and of the impact that he had had on me, as well as on many, many others. And I cried, openly, as I shared this story with the patients in attendance, which, of course, moved them in the depths of their own humanity and their own struggle with many of the same things. After the lecture, as I was exiting the auditorium, a friendly patient approached me with a look of earnestness and a feeling of warmth. “You were talking about Andy Drinkard, weren’t you?” he asked me, point-blank. I felt the tears, which had died down in the interim, well up again spontaneously. “Yes,” I said simply, “I was.” Here we were, two alcoholics standing in an auditorium 800+ miles from Andy’s home of Atlanta, Georgia, discovering that we both knew, loved, and missed Andy Drinkard, sharing our experience, strength, and hope with each other, just as alcoholics are encouraged to do. And it was beautiful.

Andy, I realize that it is quite possible that you witnessed that interaction, and that you were, in your inimitable and impish way, smiling at, and with, us. I hope you are smiling even now, as you witness my attempt to convey to a larger audience who you were, and, most accurately, who you were – and are – to me. If there is anyone in the world who would be inclined to forgive errors of fact in my story telling and recollections, it would certainly be you. And so I appeal to that most generous part of your nature as I offer this mini-memoir to those who might care to read it. If it is not accurate in all the specifics, it is, I believe, a true representation of you and your momentous journey. It is in this “truer than true” sense that I warmly offer this piece to those who would care to read it, hopefully to be edified, and maybe even inspired, by it. And, to be sure, I offer it as a gift to you, too, Andy, my departed friend. May you consider it worthy, and may we one day be reunited in the joy of everlasting life.