An Anthem for the Heartsick

I received a notification. “Congratulations!” it said. “You have been sober for two years.” I felt numb and terribly alone. Because for most of that time I hadn’t spoken to other recovering addicts. My treatment was thorough and helpful, but merely temporary. And after a while, you start to forget. Forget why you began sobriety in the first place; forget drinking truly solves nothing; forget the price you’ve paid. Non-addicts cannot help you remember; you must hear the words from someone who’s been there.

That same weekend I read the synopsis of The Outrun. I avoid films about addiction. They are often cynical about recovery and I tend to respond with a similar weariness. They make me want to drink, is the simplest way to say it. I saw the film, hoping it would tear me down. Instead, it wouldn’t let me fall. It still won’t. The Outrun is a film for addicts. One that does not discount the sorrow of substance abuse, but doesn’t revel in it either. Instead, it surpasses pain and becomes a glorious ode to recovery.

The film is based on the similarly titled memoir by Amy Liptrot. An alcoholic must leave London and return home to recover. The plot is simple, but feels undramatic and honest, even in its most overwhelming moments. Saoirse Ronan, as Rona, screaming at her boyfriend as he denies her a drink, sobbing in her mother’s arms after a relapse; these are the familiar steps. The things non-addicts imagine an addict’s life to be: violent, loud, and traumatic. They are, of course, truthful imaginations, but don’t paint the complete picture. And trust me, they will not be the images you remember from this film. It will be Rona’s solo dance party, her howls at seals, the bonfires at Gyro Nights, or even the simple calling of the corncrake.

Never have I seen a film showcase the sad and beautiful truth of self-discovery in sobriety so completely. The Outrun takes its time to communicate how pressing Rona’s recovery is. But then goes further than most by actually showing what happens after the meetings; when one tries to find meaning on their own. It is an arduous journey to find joy, beauty, passion and control, after the only thing that provided you that is gone. It takes time and isn’t finished with its finding. You must guard it forever and rediscover it again and again. But when you have it, my goodness, it is precious. So it’s the silent moments that stand out; Rona telling her mother about seaweed, visiting a petting zoo with fellow addicts, or the first plunge into Orkney seas.

Ursula K. Le Guin wrote in her book Tehanu: “Wrong that cannot be repaired, must be transcended.” Films about addiction have a tendency to focus on the wrong, and the reality that it cannot be repaired. The Outrun is a story of transcendence. It shows all who suffer that growth is possible, without filing down its edges. The tides rise and fall. The downs are terrible; but the ups are boundless. The joyful core of this film crescendoes amidst a mighty ocean as a quiet, powerful island. It’s a poetic cry for sober drunks. There’s a magic to it. One I cannot quite distill into words myself. So I’ll steal Amy Liptrot’s own.

Rain on me. Strike me with fire. I feel like lightning in slow motion. I am one fathom deep and contain the unknown. I am vibrating at a frequency invisible to man and I’m ready to be brave.

When I came out of the theatre, I smiled at a grey sky, heard the crying wind and inhaled the air of tomorrow. I am awake and ready to be brave. An island in a storm, freed from painful embarrassment, freed from anger spoken in grief, freed from what I should or could’ve been. Any promise I make to myself now will be true. In AA, they say: “Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. Courage to change the things I can. And wisdom to know the difference.” The Outrun knows the difference where its peers often fail. It will rip your heart out, but then kindly offer it back and urge you to dive into cold seas, gaze at distant stars and howl at dancing seals.