Let's Start with the Date
Twelve Thirteen Fourteen
This is what I wrote soon after I sobered up, at age 38. It's worth posting for some insight into my journey to sobriety. It started here, but it did not end here, as is often the case. Read on, and I hope you find some comfort, or maybe even some inspiration, if you need it.
That’s it. That’s the one. That’s my last chance at sobriety. This was where I was at in the middle of 2014, or maybe even in the beginning of that year. I had known I was heading toward sobriety for a long time. Say, ten years. (I’ll go into how my drinking started another time.) But early on, I was pretty sure it wasn’t going to end well; it was just a matter of how long was it going to take me, how bad was it going to get, and what kind of ending are we talking about?
I had a thing for dates, numerically, that is. I began resolving to quit come this date or that date, because it was memorable. Like “Arbor Day, definitely Arbor Day”, if any of you remember that radio ad. I think it was for quitting smoking… Anyway, mine was more like January 2nd, 2003 (1/2/03); or May 5th, 2005 (5/5/05); or October 11th, 2012 (10/11/12). You get the idea. There were many, MANY of these opportunities through the years. In fact, I kind of preferred the dates from 2010 and beyond, because I didn’t have to mess with that pesky “zero” in the 05 or whatever. We didn’t really express those without the zero, and as finicky as I am, I couldn’t get past it. So good, drink for a few more years. Then, there came a time when I realized that the last “clever” date was going to happen on December 13th, 2014. Yikes! My secret countdown began. On one hand, it was reassuring to know that my quit date was fast-approaching; on the other, it served to fan the flames, or in other words, I drank more. And more.
By the time December rolled around, I was giddy with excitement for my upcoming sobriety. I knew I would feel better, look better, BE better. I wanted that relief. Funny, I drank every day for relief from myself, but now I had drunk myself into needing relief from my drinking. It was almost as if I was pushing myself to drink my way to “rock bottom”, because I knew I would be on the way back up come the 13th. A fine line to walk, indeed. Maintain my life, as a wife and mother, but splurge (read: binge) on my drinking, only not so much so that I become hospitalized (or worse) and therefore can no longer maintain my life. A challenge, to be sure! Typical behavior, though, for me; I conserve or I splurge (binge), with very little in between. Be it spending, eating, sleeping, helping, watching, reading, volunteering, or yes, drinking. I was confident I was up for the challenge.
Speaking of splurging, I wasn’t going to half-ass this “ending”. Nooo, I threw a party! I decided it was time for the ladies to get together for a holiday cookie-exchange type of thing. Of course there was wine-tasting and appetizer-eating. Fun for all. And honestly, it was a lovely way to end my drinking days. Really. Surrounded by women I love and admire, enjoying one another’s company, and savoring those last sips (bottles) of my beloved wine. It was perfect.
Until, as was regularly the case with my nightly drinking, I started to lose track of my words, my thoughts, my memory. This wasn’t so bad in the early years, when I think I must have been “high” enough to not notice, or silly enough to not care. But by now, when I drank, I could feel myself losing the ability to communicate. I was fully aware, as if I was sober, that I was not making sense with my words, or my thoughts were not coming out of my mouth correctly, or I just plain sounded like an idiot. I couldn’t make myself shut up, but I couldn’t communicate correctly either. I felt like I was losing my mind. I wondered if this was what it felt like for someone with Alzheimer’s or dementia. A sick feeling.
Then, of course, I got sick. Yes, I have had my share of drinking myself sick over the years, but I had more or less mastered the art of drinking juuuust less than what it would take to make me sick, which of course was more and more as the years went by. But something was changing. Aside from the usual headache and general nastiness I awoke to each morning, which I could handle, now I was starting to feel worse. Other symptoms were surfacing. My upset stomach and intestines were only getting more angry. Finally, after years of not actually getting sick, I got sick! It was an early morning that October and I wasn’t even sure it was from the drinking. For someone who “never” throws up, and having not ingested more than my usual bottle-and-then-some of wine, I figured I must have actually been sick. You know, a virus. But then it happened again, the morning after my party, early on December 13th, 2014.
What a relief. I knew that was the end. I was almost glad it ended with me hunched over the toilet. Get that sh✥t out of me! I want it gone forever. Even now, as I write this, I sigh with the relief. So that’s my date. I will never let it go.