“The Shining,” whether you’re talking about the 1977 book or the 1980 film, is essentially about an alcoholic’s struggle with his addiction and how it affects his life and loved ones. It’s funny how only now I truly grasp that. Before, I just saw it as a horror story about the difficulties of being married to a writer.
Three years ago, I made the move from L.A. to New York City. Here, I wore the hats of both writer and representative for a small literary magazine that I operated from my downtown apartment alongside my friend, Anika. Together, as editors, we put out seven issues. Each publication was met with an overwhelmingly awesome response—not just in the biblical sense, but in the modern, celebratory sense too! We capped off each issue with a toast and, naturally, a drink to match our labor.
In AA, they often remind us of the irony in “doing the same thing and expecting different results.” That kind of insanity resonates with alcoholics, who also keep a repository of other sayings like, “It’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission,” or, “You know what it feels like when you drink, but not when you stop.”
Honestly, I’m not always sure I know what happens when I drink either. There are memory voids—missed birthdays, weddings, even a car gone missing. There was one night I was so intoxicated that I parked in a stranger’s driveway. Finding my car gone the next morning, I assumed theft and rashly reported it to the police.
I took my maiden sip of alcohol at 12—a colorful hurricane drink at Olive Garden. Back then, their menus declared, “When you’re here, you’re family,” and so I joined this newfound family, turning my mouth blue with those drinks.
I’m not someone who easily lets go. I’ve held onto MoviePass, invested in Bitcoin, and even kept all my Beanie Babies in anticipation of that ever-elusive value spike. My magazine life, deeply embedded in nightlife, ensured I didn’t want the party to stop. Stopping felt like losing.
Getting to my first meeting at an overlit church basement took years. I kept attending the same parties, hoping for a different outcome. This needed to change. AA advised seeking a higher power and praying—something foreign to me. “It’s innate,” they assured, likening spirituality to the ocean’s wetness. Yet, embracing this concept was challenging, perhaps because I was good at swallowing pills but struggled to digest this idea. Who would be my God?
Initially, I scoured for loopholes in sobriety. Could I experiment with micro-dosing? Were there substances I hadn’t abused? What if I only drank selectively, on weekends or alone? As these thoughts swirled, I pondered getting a dog or even changing my hair. “Get 90 days first,” my sponsor advised.
About six weeks into AA, I popped into a local Chinatown bar to promote the magazine. I wasn’t seeking forgiveness or permission, just a cigarette from a man expelled from college over misconduct. The yearning to rejoin the revelry burned fiercely within me. Instead, I found myself kneeling in the bar’s bathroom—this time not to vomit, but to pray. I promised myself that in a year, I’d mark a year of sobriety.
Stephen King didn’t take kindly to Stanley Kubrick’s take on “The Shining.” The original story offered a sympathetic portrayal of battling alcoholism. Kubrick’s adaptation, however, felt colder. The novel ends in fire, the film in ice. They embody different battles—burning versus freezing.
My apartment was a landscape of packaging and past magazine issues, reflecting a life filled with well-earned indulgences. Yet, as I steadied myself in recovery, changes had to be made for progress. Ironically, the car I lost turned up at an abandoned house, partially on the lawn. Someone had indeed stolen its catalytic converter—proof of some theft after all.
I also began parting with other possessions, giving my Beanie Babies to a neighbor’s kid. Familiar with neither their history nor Princess Diana, he accepted them simply as bears.
Shopping, caffeine, work, exercise—each has attempted to take on the role of my higher power. I still grapple with direction, my former titles like “editor” and “party girl” struggling to align with my current self. As I navigate what’s next for me and the magazine, I remain uncertain. “Hi, I’m Madeline, and I’m a _____.”
Yet, each day the challenge feels lighter. Twelve steps aren’t much, not in my fifth-floor walk-up life. Entering those meetings, I know it’s where I belong. “When you’re here, you’re family,” rings true.
Facing reality is tough. Some days, it’s hard to get out of bed, my weight has dropped, and I’m left dealing with the aftermath of past indulgences. But I’ve discovered new places, new basements with new stories where I recall names, nights, and even weddings. I’m here if you need me, because now, I truly can be.
Madeline Cash is a writer and founding editor of Forever Magazine. Keep an eye out for her debut novel, arriving in winter 2026.
