To Moderation

I always wondered what made alcoholism “run in the family". I feel like I heard that a lot growing up. Something like, “he better be careful with all that drinking, you know that runs in the family”. As I  toggle back and forth between past and present, I see how I always had an abusive relationship with alcohol. From the very beginning. In college, I recall talking to people about the alcohol that made them learn. Stories about the first time they got really drunk and how that particular alcohol would now make their stomach turn to just think of it. They’d learned. 

I, on the other hand, hadn’t learned. I couldn’t tell you the first time I had a real drink. Or what it was. Just that I was pretty young. Somewhere between 14 and 16. Really, I don’t know. One summer, when I was 17, I got my drunkest thus far. I blacked out and I can remember the morning after vividly. Waking up next to a garbage can in some oversized gym shorts. My clothes, as I would learn, were in the trash. My best friend had to call my job to get me off the hook for a no call, no show. The pounding in my head seemed to vibrate outward, like I was trying to get a force field to grow. I smelled pretty bad. 

My best friend didn’t hesitate one moment to express her frustrations as soon as she saw that my eyes were opening as I laid on her bedroom floor. I’d put her and a few of our other friends through a lot the night before in my drunkenness. It didn’t take long for her chastising to shift to playful teasing as she laughed, asking me if I remembered anything at all. I didn’t. Just the start of the party we were at, and maybe an hour after. Then, nothing. Just the moment of me waking up.  

The more she filled me in, the more I grew embarrassed, ashamed, and confused. The things she told me were, mostly gross (remember when I said my clothes were in the trash), but also just humiliating. I hated the idea of how I looked to everyone at the party. I was so annoyed by that. As the moments and the recap went on, though, I started to feel grateful. For being okay, overall, and for being at my best friend’s house with none of my behavior detected by either of our parents. I’d had an experience, and I was able to just keep on going. I felt lighter in a matter of minutes, with very little pressure to ensure that didn’t happen again. 

Happen again, it did. Over and over again as the years went on. As I toggle now from that past to the present, I think about the alcoholism that has been passed down to me. It’s interesting, really, to think about how I took this habit in. Proof that it really could be in my blood, as it certainly isn’t much of a learned behavior. For a little bit of my childhood, we lived in the same house as my uncles. They’re younger than my Mother, and were childless at the time, so their lives were more carefree than hers. They drank, and I have maybe a few memories of what that looked like, but not many. My Grandmother, who we also lived with at that time, wasn’t drinking by this point as she’d grown ill. My Mother didn’t drink at all. I didn’t see my Mom drink until my 21st birthday. 

So, if I didn’t learn it, as my impressionable years were spent in the house with non-drinkers, I have to consider genetics. Both my grandfathers served in the Vietnam war in the sixties. From what I know, they both came back mentally scarred and drawn to the escape promised by drugs and alcohol. Escape. I’ll revisit that in a moment. I don’t know too much about the folks before them, but even this as a starting point makes sense. My uncles grew fond of alcohol in the same way I would in the years to come. Same with my brother. 

Escape. Perhaps, not literal alcoholism was passed down. Not the for sureness of addiction. Not the acquired taste it would take. But the escape. I think about the ways alcoholism varies in my family. Those we deem “functioning alcoholics”, meaning they drink a lot, but not enough to be thrown off course. Those, more like me, who didn’t need to drink often, but needed to feel it. Needed to be filled by it, especially, in empty moments. 

This contrast would become clearer to me over time. In my 22nd year, I had a couple of major scares when it came to alcohol. Blacking out to the point of needing to be searched for was the final straw for my Mother. After a bit of an intervention with her, my big brother, and my dad over the phone, I started what I would use every year to prove to myself that I was fine. I’d fast for 30 days at a time. As if to say, “see! I’m good, I don’t even need to drink”. Of course, the first day after a fast, I’d celebrate with a drink or several. And the cycle continued. 

I was blacking out less and less, but the effects were still prominent; and honestly, even more annoying as I was fully conscious to witness them. I’d lash out or have crying fits, and the hangovers, oh my goodness, the hangovers. I’d started trying to create a system to keep everything under control. Along with fasting, I’d started being more aware of my emotions going into drinking as I knew that I’d be more susceptible to binging if I was feeling low. The only thing about that though, is I’d often use my low feelings as a way to enable myself into a drink. After all, I deserved a drink. Even though I’d slip, those heavier moments around alcohol started to drift further and further from each other. 

As I toggle back to the present, I think about my latest fast. It ended 7 days ago, but my desire to drink has been the lowest I’ve ever felt it. While fasting from June 15 to July 15, I made note of the subject of drinking not crossing my mind at all. Literally. Not at all. That was really interesting to me, because I’m wondering, what’s so different? I’ve always had an all or nothing attitude when it came to my relationship with alcohol. Quite literally, when you consider my binging. But also, when things would get bad, I’d start forcing myself to picture a version of me who doesn’t drink at all. It’s like I couldn’t even fathom the possibility of implementing balance in this space. 

The year 2020 has been a wild one. Earlier in the year, as we settled into quarantine, with confusion swirling in the air, and time mushing into each other; it felt like nothing mattered. This was perfect for who I was accustomed to being as a drinker. It didn’t matter, just do whatever. What I wasn’t expecting, though, was the introspection that I’d find in this space. How the quiet of what came to be our new found nothingness was exactly what I needed to hear myself. To practice what I’d been preaching; to be truly present and to find balance. 

Alignment. I came to find out what the contents of my home frequency is. Who I am at my highest. I started asking myself, “can I be this when I drink?”. I still haven’t answered that with a full body yes, simply because, as I said, my desire to drink has been very low. But I know now what that highest self looks and feels like. I have the soil to plant in. To experiment, with a new sense of ease. I’ve changed my language and loosened my grip. I know that I can enjoy  myself in all settings, with or without anything other than myself. 

So, cheers. To me. To breaking generational curses. To balance. To Loving who I am in all my forms. To building a life that I don’t need to escape from. I lift my glass, which at any point may be filled with Wade Cellars Red Blend, water, tea, Makers Mark, but always in the hand of my highest and truest self.