“The Outrun” is a movie about recovery that everyone should see

Waves crashing against the landscape.

Source: Ari He/Unsplash

I stumble into the little stall in the playhouse bathroom, less to pee and more to think about how to contain the other water that must flow after watching The Outruna new film about addiction and recovery.

Once the car is in motion, I plug in my phone and feel the immediate “ah” release as The National’s music starts playing.

I’m fine, I’m down… I’m feeling smaller and smaller… I need my girl.

There are a few stop signs and about four more traffic lights left. They disappear quickly, and as I climb the three steps to my front porch, I begin to feel anxious. How will I release the slump I’ve been carrying since I bought the movie ticket five days ago?

am i ready are we ever

A voice asks: How can we love people who do things they know are harmful to themselves and others? Another voice asks: How can we demonize people for taking substances that are ritualized during social celebrations and cherished life passages?

The man who toasts his daughter at her wedding or someone’s first legal drink.

There are so many in-betweens. The first swamp cocktails we drink from plastic containers. Those made with small pieces of liquid (usually half an inch or so) were drawn from bottles in the parent’s liquor cabinet. Vodka dances with rye and maybe scotch if the parents want. We happily consume the liquid in neighborhood playgrounds or upstairs bedrooms.

Ours is a culture that celebrates those who drink to excess, although it is usually reserved for men. Men in their 80s with girlfriends as young as their grandchildren jumping around the stage in front of thousands of fans who weren’t even born when they started. Rock and roll is an institution, and alcohol (and drugs) are a central part of why they’re adored.

Its excess is rebellion. It sucks at what we’re supposed to do. It’s pushing the boundaries of the very limited boxes that surround us the minute we’re thrust into this world.

What people don’t understand is that the same is true for those of us who were either born into the tangled nest of alcoholism or grew up in it. We are also flailing here, swaying in the wind and in the black swamp of ourselves.

In the intense afternoon light and endless nights, we run and scream.

We are saying something too.

help

I’m lost

I don’t know how to take off this jacket of shame that has long been tied around me.

I am terrified of living without my dark maiden, the bottle.

I want to be invisible.

Leave me alone in my sorrow

help

I’m fine, I’m down… I’m feeling smaller and smaller… I need my girl.

the book The Outrun by Amy Liptrot was published in 2015. I read it a couple of years ago. Part nature writing, part heartfelt memoir about addiction and recovery, Liptrot’s book is captivating, brave, and cosmic. So many pages are illuminated by the moon that she charts with scientific precision as she goes about day after day, and then month after month, of living without alcohol.

A stretch of land that defies limited definition, an advance it is part of the land and the sea, both cultivated and wild. It’s an evocative backdrop to the story of how Liptrot finds himself again; a story that is told beautifully and faithfully to the film adaptation.

I have never traveled to the rocky outcrops of the Orkney coast and never felt its waters rush against the deep rock, infusing it with torrential energy. But I’ve been on a journey similar to Liptrot’s.

For many of us, getting sober requires going somewhere far away. Maybe not the outer rings of Scotland, but certainly an outpost of some sort. Whether it’s a fancy rehab center or AA meeting rooms, we all crawl, run or hide in that cabin in the woods.

Sobriety is a place where things are boiled down to their most basic elements. You learn to survive, to build something, to dig things up. Most of these things are feelings we carry in our heavy backpacks for decades: resolve, fear, shame, desire, anger, denial, a flicker of love.

It can feel as if we want to drain the oceans so that there is no more liquid to tempt us, so that we can more easily go to the sandy shores. We howl at each other, as Liptrot did with the seals, singing a song of pain that only we can make out.

Watching this movie helped clear the pain from my lens.

Sinking into a kitchen chair, I shed tears that had been waiting to be released for years. Recovery is like that. It’s something that unlocks in stages, and sometimes someone else’s experiences unlock the cellular floodgates.

This film is notable for many reasons, primarily the brilliant writing of Liptrot, who also co-wrote the screenplay. But it’s also incredible for Saoirse Ronan, who embodies the title character with tender assurance and precision.

The Outrun it’s a film about something I tried to hide for decades and struggled deeply to find release. Seeing it on screen in a mainstream movie is validating in a way that almost defies words. This movie helps us.

It makes me think of Diane Arbus, whose stunning portraits of little people, nudists and trans beauty queens redefined who is suitable for portraiture. What a leap for creativity and inclusion, what a way to destabilize what “good” or “worthy” means.

What a way to give ourselves license to look at ourselves with the love we deserve.