Before I Quit

This is a long one, but I think it’s important to give some background and share a few snippets from my drinking days, as I inched closer and closer to sobriety. These are excerpts from writing I did during the later years of my drinking. Painful, but honest.

2012 - How can this be??? How can this be my life??? I have completely lost my f🞸cking mind and made an embarrassing spectacle of myself in front of the people I love most in this whole wide world: my kids. I have failed. I am an alcoholic and I have failed. That hurts. All I remember is that he was supposed to eat a green bean. Just a green bean. A green f🞸cking bean. Why is that so difficult??? Because you have a psycho mom lurking over your shoulder making damn sure you’ll eat that f🞸cking green bean. Then she’ll be so pissed that you won’t do it, she’ll slam her wine glass down onto the table and it will shatter. She will be thankful that the glass was empty, toss the pieces into the trash, and grab a broom to start sweeping those tiny slivers of iridescence which so cunningly elude her. How can this be? How did this happen?...

2013 - This is ridiculous. Ridiculous! I’m an alcoholic. Ridiculous. But I am. I realize this on my drive home from dropping off the 6th grader at school. It’s a short drive, but long enough for me to think about what I have done and how ridiculous this all is. I am an alcoholic. It occurs to me then that this is significant enough that I really should do something about it. How about that No-Excuses-November? I should take action and kick this thing in the ass. If I had any other ailment, like cancer or a broken bone or hearing loss, I would do something about it. Hmm. Now I get it. Now I understand what that counselor meant. She had all but pointed out exactly that comparison and I didn’t get it then. We were seeing this no-nonsense counselor a few years ago, but not for my problems, no, rather for our difficult child at the time. Somehow, my alcoholic habits came up one day, and she addressed them. I suppose I wanted to talk about it, really I was probably desperate to talk about it, but I still was wishing for a way to deal with it without dealing with it. She proceeded to explain to me some options for someone like me, an alcoholic, although I couldn’t swallow that pill then, and the fundamentals of Alcoholics Anonymous, what it is based upon and how it works. Everything she said about it made me want a drink, right then and there. I asked if I could quit but still drink a little. You know, be responsible about it. She, of course, saw right through this and nipped it in the bud. Of course not, you’re an alcoholic! She told me that as with any serious condition, I must find treatment. I must take action. I couldn’t see how that was relevant or comparable, and decided I could manage on my own...

...So here I am, still drunk. To my credit, if there is to be any, I have made better decisions of late. Once I quit my job, which was the source of much stress and disruption in our home, which in turn triggered many a night filled to the brim with alcohol, I felt more like myself than I had in a very long time. Recently, there have been days when I could have a nice glass of wine at lunch (what a treat!) and then finish the bottle in the evening. These were good days. But still, days through which I could not survive without my wine. So it was somewhat of a mirage. I was seeing the pacing myself as a positive thing, good decisions throughout the day, when really, it was just another day of needing to drink. I had to. I couldn’t fathom an entire day, from morning to night, without the wine. I have done it. I know it can be done, and what’s more, it’s not all that terrible or intolerable. But I don’t want to do that. I want to get drunk...

...Now, as I sit here at my desk, nursing my slight hangover, feeling as though I am drinking myself to death, noticing how even my knees feel drunk, like they themselves have been injected with alcohol, worrying that my heart will stop beating at any moment and my children will be left motherless just as they are heading off to school today, exploring this realization to which I have come many times before, I see that there are many aspects of this condition to cover here. There is much writing and reflection to be done. Maybe this time, as I record my journey here, some good will come out of this. Maybe I will actually accept the fact that yes, I am an alcoholic. I hate to say it. But I would hate to say 'I have cancer' too. But if that were the case, that’s what I would have to say. Maybe this time, I can move past the acceptance and embrace a new, sober way of life...

...I don’t know what will happen, but I know I need to get this out of me. Writing is something I can do. I will write to record my relationship with alcohol. I don’t believe this will be a story of total abandonment of this crutch, this medicine, this thing with which I have had a very close relationship for the last 10 years at least, albeit an unhealthy, dysfunctional relationship. I don’t know of any relationship like that which can simply end. Even if the other party is gone, there are still thoughts and needs and memories that include it. No, this relationship will continue for me, although it will have to continue minus the drink.

Here goes.

2014 - Alcoholism is in my blood, so it’s no surprise to me that now, in my late 30s, I am struggling with it and have been for the last decade in particular. I’m a wife, mother of three, homeowner, artsy-fartsy type and I’m an alcoholic. I hate saying that, but I have proved it time and time again. I do find that writing it out helps me. Somehow, putting my experience into words and logging this part of my life helps me to deal with it, to process what is going on inside me. It is bigger than me and I know I need help. But right now, this is the only help I can afford. So here we are...

...Running into someone at the store - For some reason, that kind of "confrontation" feels like an offense to my system, a violation of my core, over-exposure of my inner-most self, a harsh shock to my state of mind. Why do things hurt so much? I either want to throw up or better yet, have a drink. Maybe both, which could be arranged given enough of the one...

...So here I am, beginning another paragraph with “so”. But I’m here, sans alcohol, pissed off, disgruntled, weak, embarrassed, sad, and don’t forget lonely. Hoping desperately that this writing will help. I have serious doubts. But we agreed we would dry out for the next three weeks. I know I can do it, I just don’t want to. Maybe I’ll just be cranky for the next three weeks. There are worse things. What, like being an alcoholic?...

...After a 22-year relationship with alcohol, the last 12 years of which can be considered “intimate”, I think this is it. I can see now that by admitting that I cannot control this, I am taking control of this...

...The “good”: There’s that feeling that comes with even the very first sip that is unmistakably relaxing and singularly unique to alcohol. Nothing else gives me that sweet pause, that slight untying of the laces of the day. I’m generally a pretty focused individual. I keep lists, both on paper and on the paper in my head. I keep lists of those lists, and work from them all day long, multi-tasking from one list to another, even inventing new lists along the way. That first sip of wine, and the sips that follow, give me that break from the push of productivity. Those sips allow me to not care that I’m not accomplishing anything at the moment, that I most likely didn’t accomplish all that I intended that day, that my kids cause me such headache and heartache, in spite of my love for them. Those sips make everything OK...

...The ”bad”: Those sips are short-lived. By the time I finish that glass (half a bottle), I am feeling such a lack of care and concern that I don’t care about anything or anyone anymore. Almost an overdose of carelessness. I don’t even care that the next glass (or more, if available), will actually cause me pain, guilt, and regret. I don’t care that I can’t do my job as a wife and mother. I’ll still prepare the meal, but in a blur. I’ll still sit and eat the food, with my family, but I’ll eat too much of it and in a fog of faces and voices at the table. I might clean up, but I don’t care if the mess is left for the morning. I’ll say things, too loud and obnoxious, and probably not remember all of them. I’ll snap in anger at my kids and slur my orders as I bark at them. I’ll hope and pray that no one calls or stops by. I can’t be seen like this by anyone else. I’ll forget to dispense medication to those who need it, or switch the laundry for something someone needs first thing in the morning, or even take out my contacts for the night. I might pass out watching TV or I might eat a bag of potato chips. If I remember to brush my teeth, I’ll have to steady myself against the wall so I don’t fall. I’ll be useless to everyone, including myself. I hate to think of what memories I’m giving my children of their drunk lush of a mother. Then, somehow, I’ll find myself asleep. I know this because it is a fitful, painful, panicked sleep. My head hurts already, my heart rate is rapid and erratic, my sobering thoughts race and I worry that I’m having a heart attack or that if I do fall asleep, I won’t wake up. When my alarm goes off, spotty memory of last night’s drinking rushes forward in my head and it hurts. The regret hurts my heart and the dehydration hurts my head. What have I done? Again??? The self-doubt and guilt consume me and I don’t know how I will ever begin my day. But I do, painfully. Every step hurts, every breath worries me. I must find my way to the medicine cupboard and down my ibuprofen, attempting this covertly, as if my need for it is what proves I drank too much. I try to act like I’m fine, I feel great, I don’t have a pounding headache that radiates through my entire body. I try to pretend like I remember everything from last night, I’m confident that I didn’t say anything I wouldn’t say if I had been sober. Right? Then my entire day revolves around the effort I must exert to get at least the basics accomplished. Beds made, dishes done (especially if they were left from the night before), a load of laundry started (if I hadn’t already been shocked awake by someone’s outrage that their article of clothing had not made it into the dryer last night). As the day becomes the evening, I actually start to feel better, like myself, like my alcoholic self, and begin to think about my bottle of wine again. Believe it or not. It has me. It controls me. And I do it all again, swearing this time, I’ll only have the one glass...

...I know I can do this. I’ve done it enough, intermittently over the last 22 years, to know deep down, that I really am a good person. I met my husband and married him without alcohol. I had my babies without alcohol. I survived some tough times without alcohol. I’ve been smart and entertaining and eloquent without alcohol. I’ve been productive and successful and creative without alcohol. I’ve been a better me without alcohol. This is it...