Two years
I found a journal entry the other day that I had written when I started drinking again after a 6 month break. It was a classic pro/con list and then three pages of conditions and justifications and danger zones and acceptable risks and warning signs and lines in the sand. So complicated.
Which is what my drinking had always been. Complicated.
I had my first drink somewhere around the time my Dad went to rehab. We had to go to AA and NA meetings at the lockdown facility. It was the final destination of most alcoholics. A trip I was determined never to take.
I’d always been a nervous kid of the stomach ache and middle of the night sleepover-pickup variety. The first day of school always felt like I was walking away from my parents forever. Abduction (via alien or white van), nuclear holocaust and being orphaned (via parental death or incarceration) were my constant fears.
So, when I felt that warm, internal hug, the feeling of ok-ness and everything is fine-ness, my weekend plans clicked into place for the next 25 years. As long as I kept my shit together during the week and followed an ever-evolving list of rules and conditions, I would never step over that giant, black line that separates normal drinkers from alcoholics.
I never drank without fear of crossing that line. And I drank a lot, so the fear was a lot. Constant dissections and dismissals, morning panics, banning of red wine- no, brown spirits- no, beer- no, sugary mixers-and-definitely never, ever champagne, ruled my weekend mornings.
And then the internet rolled around and I could take and manipulate online alchoholic quizzes to suit the phase of my hangover- early mornings I scored in the 7–10 range so I would spin and twist and sweat in my sheets and make vows. By the time evening rolled around and the two minute noodles and gatorade kicked in, I could get down to the 3–4 range and not completely ruin my Saturday night plans, I’d change my vows to bargains.
I never got arrested, lost my job, got a DUI, ruined my liver or faced an ultimatum from loved ones.
Instead, there were countless days lost to horrible hangovers. There were countless days half-lost to minor hangovers. There were many grumpy bedtimes with wine on my breath. There was my kid asking for no alcohol at his birthday party. There was the realisation that at some point soon the kids and the grown-ups would have to decide if they were going to join their drinking days together. There were countless 3AM sweaty, anxious wake-ups trying desperately to remember if I had done anything shitty the night before. There was the creeping panic that I was missing out on a connection with my kids that would be impossible to win back. There were the sticky cleanups hoping the neighbours weren’t too mad. There were desperate swims in cold water to try and salvage the camping trip. There was the constant hope that the kids would entertain themselves so that the grown-ups could drink in peace. And the constant, constant, constant, constant worry about inching closer and closer to that big, black line.
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And so I stopped.
And I didn’t have to go to AA. I didn’t have to accept that I had a moral failing that would terrorise me with temptation for the rest of my life. I didn’t have to have a devil on my shoulder whispering in my ear or doing push-ups in the parking lot waiting to kick my ass with cravings as soon as I left the meeting.
Instead, I listened to podcasts about how alcohol is a scam and a trap. I took walks. I drank lemon water in the morning and hot tea (gawd) at night. I leaned into the fact that quitting drinking was a rebellious act and that I wasn’t going to suddenly turn into the boring non-drinker at the table (who I never wanted to sit by). I read a lot of books and wrote a lot of lists.
I felt fucking everything for the first time in almost 30 years and it was excrutiating. Instead of disappearing like I hoped, my anxiety turned up to 1000 and took over my whole body. I felt like I had no skin. Every first camping trip, dinner party, wedding, funeral, birthday party, vacation, new season, was terrifying.
And then? It wasn’t, it was easy. Guess what? All those things are exactly the same without alcohol, most of them a lot better. I had no idea! The first 30 minutes are awkward and then it’s all the same. You can still laugh. You’re still funny. You can still think of things to say. You just don’t feel like shit the next day and people hardly ever get mad at you. Weekends last WAY longer.
That’s the thing that blows me away the most, I have SO MUCH MORE TIME. It’s wild! I don’t have this big, potentially exciting, potentially disasterous distraction hanging out in the ether constantly asking me if I could be having more fun if I just cracked open a beer. So, I have more patience for my kids. Time to write a story. The space to spend hours researching camping gear and movies to watch and books to read and shows to go to and trips to take. I almost never feel guilty. I feel like I have 30% more life.
I don’t know man, I never thought I’d be writing this essay. I always knew that I’d reach my last drink at some point, but I thought that what came after that would be a marathon of deprivation and cravings and shame and isolation.
I thought I’d miss tacos and margaritas, hard work and cold beer, fresh caught fish and white wine, oysters and champagne. But when you really think about it, alcohol tastes like shit and also makes it so you can’t really taste your food (sorry sommeliers).
I also thought I’d miss connection and celebration and joy and “life’s too short, drink the wine!” Turns out, I get those things but way, way deeper. I wasn’t just numbing the fear, but also the good shit too.
The only thing I’ve actually truly missed is the feeling of dark, inky, oblivion. Which is probably why it was a super idea to stop.
