Stories

I could tell you a story of a girl who found herself drinking every day by the time she was 23. The only pauses that would disrupt that pace would be the pregnancies and birth of three beautiful babies, which in part happened earlier than it would have as a way to break the chain of consecutive days having drank.

I could proceed with how drinking alone was preferred and how deep I’d fall into addiction while pouring glass after glass of wine down my throat. How comforting the numb depression was and how lost I’d get in it. I could reminisce about how much energy I was spending on counting drinks. Drinks I’d had, drinks I allowed myself, drinks I’d regret, drinks I looked forward to, and finally, the counting of the drinks we had in the house, terrified of finding myself without any.

Or

I could tell a story about a girl who simply liked her drink. We could reflect on all the times in my life when I had my alcohol consumption “under control.” I could tell now the same story I told back then. Ya, I have a drink or two (or more) every day, but how else do you know the day has ended? We could talk about my early raising and the healthy daytime routines I used to create balance.

We also could spend time reflecting on all the times I stayed responsible, even while drinking, and how I kept myself in line enough not to draw in any suspicion, how I woke up on time and never flaked out on work, appointments, or responsibilities. I drank every day because that's what “worked” for me. All the jokes and all the functioning paint a lovely picture of a person with her shit together.

These stories are both true.

I always knew I had a problem, but it didn’t seem real. It was as if maybe everyone had to try that hard not to drink too much all the time. I constantly made excuses while concentrating on the small wins In the battle of who held the power: me or the bottle. The losses were easy to let slide, and the wins were easy to hold on to.

When I talk to the people who have known me the longest, they all say, “ I don’t remember you having a problem. I just thought you liked to drink a lot.” And I did. My friends and family are still surprised at some details in my blogs. They saw only what I showed them, only seeing the story I was telling at the time, and it was convincing because I believed it.

To some, my drinking on its worst day might sound like a cakewalk. I’m sure some people’s rock bottom would make mine sound like Disney wrote it. Was I an alcoholic or just a heavy drinker? Have I earned a spot at the table? Like there’s a line, you can cross from one side to the other. Where do the grey area drinkers belong? Where is this line so we know when we’ve crossed it?

The truth is there were lots of days that I’d have one or two and easily put the cork back in. There were lots of days I drank by myself to the point of passing out. There were bad days and not-so-bad days. There were days I’d look at my bedside table and see multiple partially drank glasses of wine I couldn’t let go of at the end of the night and days where I’d wake up remembering the wine I had carefully measured out and then put away with care.

Most days were in the middle.

All days are better now without it.