Each week, we post short interviews with interesting people about their thoughts and feelings on women and drinking. There is such a wide array of perspectives about this topic, and we are excited to gain insight into as many as possible and to share them with you.

Annette Foglino is a writer in New York who is working on a book about connecting with her Italian winemaking family in Asti. She is also working on a musical about a family of winemakers.

How old were you when you had your first drink and what was it?

Annette Foglino: I think I was about eight. Whenever we would have dinner at my Italian grandparents’ house, we’d get to splash some wine into a glass of water – it made the kids feel included. My mother always fondly recalled that my grandfather once told her – as a joke – “shut up child and drink your wine.” As common as it is for Italians to drink wine during mealtimes it doesn’t seem to translate into alcoholism. It is more of a ritual and part of tradition (and digestion).

How did/does your family treat drinking?

My mother’s drinking was strictly social – at those suburban house parties in the early seventies, she’d have a vodka and 7-Up, which seemed classy to me as a child; it was light and clear, sweet with a nice little boost of alcohol to get you woozy.

My father would drink almost every night as a way of winding down, a habit I have since imitated. He’d drink mostly beer, but on weekends, he’s sit down in front of a Western with glass of Scotch and soda. If I were watching TV too, he’d let me sneak a few sips. We weren’t allowed to eat junk food like Ring Dings and Devil Dogs, so that was my treat. I didn’t think it was all that great, but I guess the idea of something forbidden was appealing. And it was kind of a bonding ritual with my dad.

How do you approach alcohol in your everyday life?

As a treat and a way of unwinding, and not just because I watched my father do it. As a teenager and in college I was very shy and it helped me relax and be more social. I still love meeting friends for dinner and drinks – but I rarely drink during lunch or in the afternoon. I become useless – I get a headache or want to take a nap.

When I visit my cousin in Italy – the winemaker – he always orders a bottle of wine with lunch. To him, it’s part of the meal – it goes with the risotto or the salad or the pasta. I’m usually able to drink in Italy before 5 o’clock with no after effects – must be all that food.

I noticed that my cousin doesn’t drink that often after dinner, late at night, which is when I usually get going. I have a bad habit of using it to help me sleep, but really it only makes me hungry and eat more, and THEN sleep. NOT a good habit.

What’s your drink of choice? Why?

Wine, of course. It doesn’t make you bloated like beer and it doesn’t knock you out like hard liquor. Wine has been called everything from “poetry in a bottle” (Robert Lewis Stevenson); “a memory,” (Drew Barrymore who has her own Italian wine label) and “a living breathing thing,” (a character in Sideways).

I don’t really understand any of this. It can be warm and relaxing and romantic – and it has slight variations in taste – but it’s just fermented grapes!

The one description I can kind of relate to is that it is “a meditation.” Most meditation masters will tell you that alcohol dulls your spiritual senses, but for me it quiets what the Buddhists call the “chattering monkey mind.” That’s one of the main reasons I like it.

Can you tell us about the best time you ever had drinking? 

It would have to be the first time I met my cousin, Sergio, the winemaker in Italy, because I was experimenting and learning, awakening my palate and all that. And I like hearing the stories that go with some of the wine. “This one is called the Devil in the Hills from the title of the Cesar Pavese novel (one of Italy’s most Americanized writers),” he told me when pouring a glass of Barolo Chinato. With a 16 percent alcohol content and infusion of China bark and rhubarb, it was once used for medicinal purposes. Many of the wines come with a story. I love that! It’s all material to me.

What about the worst time?

Like sex, everyone probably remembers the first time they got drunk. I was 14 and went to a Chicago concert at Madison Square Garden – not even a cool, hard rock band, like Led Zeppelin! A friend and I snuck in flask-shaped bottles of Seagram’s 7 and drank them straight up.

I remember hearing the band singing “25 or 6 to 4” as I hid my face in the crack of my seat trying to sleep. When it was over, all I remember was my friend’s mother and another friend guiding me down about a dozen escalators amongst the boisterous crowd. I was wearing giant platform shoes which made it easy to keep tripping. I think I blacked out one other time in college and that was it. Never blacked out again, and never drank Seagram’s 7.

Has drinking ever affected—either negatively or positively—a relationship of yours?

No, it hasn’t, which is surprising since I’ve been through periods where I drink too much wine at night. In my last relationship, he just started joining me and we would unwind together.

Do you have a favorite book, song, or movie about drinking?

“Sideways” is a great send-up of the wine world. Cities, like New York and Paris, have often been character s in certain movies, and that’s how the California wine country was in “Sideways,” which made the film; otherwise, there wouldn’t have been much to it.

I have a few favorite songs because I’ve been doing research for a musical I’m working on with my brother, Paul, who is a songwriter.

I love the “Drinking Song” from La Traviata (“Brindisi”). The opera is crazy (like they usually are), but what a celebrity tune. The other opera drinking song that is kind of similar, but more in a marching band kind of way, is the Drinking Song from a German operetta called “The Student Prince.” It goes, “Drink, drink, drink to the eyes that are bright!

And of course, “Red, Red Wine,” by UB40, its drawn-out reggae beat capturing just how relaxing and euphoric red, red wine can be. And then a song of my brother’s because it is clever and funny and so true. “You Can’t Be Too Old to Get Drunk.” www.youtube.com/watch?v=9n1B9LEOpWM

Recently, I had a girls’ weekend with my sister, which involved walking around Manhattan, then eating, drinking and dancing before crashing at our hotel. I had one glass of white wine at the hotel bar before we went out, one glass of Pinot Grigio with dinner, and then one glass of wine at the dance place, before switching to water. That’s three glasses of wine. More than my normal quota of two, but still…

The next morning, I could barely get out of bed I was so hungover. I had the kind of hangover I used to get in college after a room’s party, where I drank all night, mixing vodka and gin and beer and god-knows-what-else.  I starting getting paranoid that someone had slipped me a roofie.

I never understood that hangover until I came across an article in the May issue of The Atlantic: “Drunk and Drunker.”

“Most of us know, for better or for worse,” James Hamblin writes, “that drinking on an empty stomach…can leave us unduly inebriated. Less familiar is a series of external cues that may determine how much we’re affected by alcohol and other substances.”

In other words, WHERE we are when we drink influences how we feel. One study found that heart rates rose more (indicating intoxication) when people drank alcohol in an unfamiliar situation than when they were in a familiar situation.  According to the Atlantic article, “people who were given alcohol in an office setting suffered more from its deleterious effects (meaning motor and cognitive impairment) than people who drank the same amount in a bar.” (So THAT’S why people who drink act like idiots at office parties!)

And maybe the context theory explains my drunk-on-3-glasses-of-wine night: I was doing things I don’t normally do—namely, spending the weekend in the city and staying up till two in the morning, dancing.

Has that ever happened to you, where you drink the same amount you normally do, except in a new setting, and it has a totally different effect?

 Photo Source

Last week, I prepared to enter my mother’s walk-in closet. Over the past several months, I’ve been going to her house—my childhood home—a couple of times a week, sifting through piles of papers, plastic containers and desk drawers. Discarding trivial things, such as my school bus form from seventh grade and dried out pens, is a snap. Figuring out what to keep is not.

When I was growing up, my mom kept her closet locked and alarmed—the kind that would alert the police if someone tripped it. She showed me regularly where she kept the key and how to disarm the alarm (there was a small hidden switch in a different closet), meant to protect her precious jewelry inside. There were shelves too, with old Lord & Taylor boxes overflowing with piles of papers—newspaper and magazine articles, old theater Playbills, etc.—and lucite boxes holding an abundance of photo envelopes stacked from front to back. On the highest shelf, there was a row of large round hat boxes, housing those wide-brimmed beauties that my mom sported only at special events, like springtime weddings (mine) and bar mitzvahs (my brother’s).

Born in France, my mother was the epitome of chic. A business executive by day, she dressed for work in a tailored skirt or slacks, with long strands of pearls strewn over a blouse or sweater. She favored dresses for evenings out, particularly those with a plunging neckline to highlight her décolleté. She rarely emerged from the house without her preferred fashion accessory, a silk scarf tied around her neck or the strap of her handbag.

Her closet still contains all of these things—not to mention dozens of Charles Jourdan shoes—and being inside those four walls stirs up childhood souvenirs of my lying on her bed, watching her primp and prepare for a Saturday night on the town with my dad. She’d come out of her closet, looking like a movie star, and make her way to her vanity table to put on her maquillage. There was always red lipstick. And perfume.

Life was in rapid motion for her then—busy with kids, husband, work, a home, a dog, and aging parents. Those hectic and happy days are long gone, and now in her late 70s, my mom suffers from acute anxiety and depression. My father’s death in 2006 voided her of vitality, leaving her lost and sad, and I can’t get her back. My mother has tried therapy and medication, but a different sort of French accessory—wine—became her choice for self-soothing. Eventually it became vodka.

When my father was sick in the hospital, my mother used to lie beside him in his hospital bed. He would talk to me and occasionally rest his eyes; hers were closed too because she was passed out and drunk. During that time, I went to their house and into her closet to move her jewelry out and into a bank safe. When my arm touched the wall, I heard a clank. I reached over to the side of the safe, a beige metal box bolted to the floor, and felt a round piece of glass. It was an empty bottle. I reached back again, further this time, and pulled out a half dozen more. She hid the wine bottles in the safety of her closet, where I imagine she escaped to take a swig or ten, and left the empties behind.

It’s been seven years since I found those bottles. My mom now lives in an assisted living facility just ten minutes away from her house. She no longer has access to alcohol and instead takes a daily cocktail of meds, yet she still suffers from anxiety and depression.

In my effort to clean out her house and ready it for the real estate market, I knew I’d have to spend time in that closet. Fearful of how I may feel in there, even with the comforting presence of my shaggy goldendoodle, I decided to bring a glass of wine along with me. I knew it was bad to drive there with open wine in my car, but I did it anyway, saving those few ounces of liquid courage it for the hours I’d need to sift through her things while enduring the memories they would trigger. I realized the irony—here I was bringing wine into the tiny room where I found my mother’s empty bottles, once replete with the substance in which I was now seeking solace. But I did it anyway.

Cleaning out my mother’s house has been both painful and eye opening. Her photos, keepsakes, and written words remind me of the amazing woman she once was, and highlight the glaring contrast between her then and now. It won’t be much longer until her closet is clean, her clothes donated, her photos digitized. But the next time I go, I’ll leave the wine behind. Because no amount of alcohol can strip away the memories, not hers or mine.

–Caren Osten Gerszberg is a co-editor of Drinking Diaries. You can read a selection of her work at www.carenosten.com

Your stories matter—not only to us, but to all the women and men who read this blog. Your words might offer comfort, escape, information or entertainment for others. Or maybe your story is a cautionary or inspiring tale to someone out there who has similar issues.

Here are some excerpts from recent stories that have been written in the SHARE YOUR STORIES tab on the blog. We encourage you to tell your stories so others might benefit from your experience, good or bad, with drinking:

J-beau:

“I’m a successful professional and I’ve struggled with binge drinking since an entire bottle of rum touched my lips on my first night of drinking when I was 16 years old…I was recently posted to India and suffered through one too many hangovers. I found myself telling a trusted friend how much I wished I had an “off” button. Then somehow it occurred to me to get googling.

Thanks to the wonders of lax regulation of over-the-counter medicines (I am too embarrassed to talk to a doctor) is self-prescribed Naltrexone. It’s a drug that has a few uses: it’s an opioid blocker, so it stops the uptake of heroin and cocaine. It also suppresses the desire to drink, and has been found effective for gambling addiction and other compulsive behaviours. It has few side-effects. It’s often prescribed for chronic habitual alcoholics. By cutting the endorphin rush when one drinks, it also means that “just one drink” remains as just one drink. I can’t tell you how revolutionary this is for me.”

Susan:

“I was praying this morning as I have many, many times for support from God and the strength to stop drinking. I honestly don’t know how, but I ended up at this site. I come from a family of alcoholics and morphed into one myself later in life. I am very functional and am a pm drinker. Chardonnay is my Satan. As I get older, I notice more cognitive impairment and have recently been diagnosed with high blood pressure. Drinking wine is a big part of our lifestyle. For me, it is also my escape…my pressure release. I’m not an annoying drinker, friends and family would be shocked to know I have a problem. I detest the idea of going to AA because my siblings were so obnoxious about their recovery and I just need a different, quieter path to sobriety. I have confided in no one about my concern. Thank you for being there.”

Mignon:

“Now pushing 50, I wonder how many secret drinkers lurk in groups of cafe writers. I say cafe writers because I am convinced there are two types of writers, those who dream of cafes in France and love to gossip, and we who long for the pubs of England where we’ll sit in the dim talking about writing. Most writers flock together to drink. ”

Jan:

“There’s always a good reason to drink, isn’t there? If you like to drink, there’s a reason–not that you need one but you can find one. Your asshole husband, your son is drugging himself to death (or already has), your business is incredibly stressful and you’re having issues financially with it, your daughter is out of a job and you have to help her financially, you hate your mother, your friends drink socially so you do too–you know, there’s a reason in there somewhere.”

Photo Source

Each week, we post short interviews with interesting people about their thoughts and feelings on women and drinking. There is such a wide array of perspectives about this topic, and we are excited to gain insight into as many as possible and to share them with you.

Allison Hope Weiner was a Century City entertainment litigator before she began writing about Hollywood as a journalist. After practicing law, she became a journalist, covering movies and television for The New York Times, writing exclusive pieces about the federal investigation and trial of Pellicano and his connection to many Los Angeles power brokers. She’s also written for The Huffington Post, Entertainment Weekly, Deadline Hollywood, Vanity Fair, The Los Angeles Times, The Hollywood Reporter and others.  She’s appeared extensively on many national entertainment television news shows including Entertainment Tonight, E! News, CBS Morning Show, Headline News, Extra and CNN.  She is the host of her own internet talk show, Media Mayhem with Allison Hope Weiner, which attempts to give the audience a chance to go behind the scenes in the media world.

How did/does your family treat drinking?

My family is filled with people who can’t drink.  We drink and then we throw-up.  I remember my mother having some wine at a fancy French restaurant and then, sitting on the curb afterwards, throwing up while my father brought the car around.  My brother, Matthew, and I went to Europe when we were in our late teens and drank heavily and threw up in every country.  It actually became a joke about who would vomit first.  Weiners are not great drinkers–although my brother has improved vastly over the years due to his time writing for the Sopranos and also from working on Mad Men.

How do you approach alcohol in your every day life?

I tend to have just a glass a few glasses of wine a week–either during dinner or while on the set of Media Mayhem.

If you have kids, how is the subject of drinking handled? Do you drink in front of them? With them? 

I do have kids and they are learning early that if they drink a lot and happen to have my genes and not their dad’s, then they too will throw–up after any kind of excessive drinking.  I tell them the Beef Steak Charlie’s story from college where I had so much Sangria that I spent the night throwing up shrimp and then the end of the evening with my head resting against the cool porcelain of the toilet in the restroom.

Have you ever had a phase in your life when you drank more or less?

I drank quite a bit in college and then, again in law school when the Olympics were in town in the mid-1980′s.  There was a place in Westwood, Los Angeles where they practically gave away Long Island Ice Tea–a very cheap happy hour of two for the price of one.  I would drink and then pretend that I was an athlete from Ireland or England and speak in a different accent as did my friend, Steven, who was much better at it.  We met a lot of people pretending to be foreign Olympic atheletes.  It was a lot of fun until later in the evening when I vomited in my closet at home and woke up the next morning and blamed it on my brother.

What’s your drink of choice? Why?

My drink of choice is a Cosmopolitan because it doesn’t taste like a drink and does most of the work of making me drunk.  I can have one Cosmo and don’t have to order another….twice the buzz with half the calories.

Can you tell us about the best time you ever had drinking?

My best time drinking was with my brother in Rome when we had Vodka d’orange–vodka with orange soda.   We drank heavily and then went dancing in an underground club.  The evening ended with getting sick, but the next day I was met at the train station by a lovely, but unknown Libyian fellow who I’d apparently invited to travel with us.  My brother and I spent the next day trying to figure out how to get rid of him since I couldn’t even remember his name.

What about the worst time? 

Probably the worst time drinking was after my divorce–I existed on a steady diet of fuzzy navels, potato chips and cigarettes.  Dinner of champions.

Has drinking ever affected—either negatively or positively—a relationship of yours?

It has never really affected my existing relationships, but it has prompted a few extremely brief ones.  I am much nicer when I drink which is a problem in terms of my social life.  Men are very attracted to drunk Allison and not so much when drunk Allison sobers up and becomes, “Who the hell are you” Allison.

Has culture or religion influenced your drinking?

Yes.  In my very Jewish family, drinking was never particularly a part of our evening.  Our favorite drug was more food than wine.

What do you like most about drinking? 

I like that for a half hour, I’m free of all inhibitions.  My husband knows that if I only have one drink, he’s in for a great half hour of fun.  If I have more than one, the fun time is about fifteen minutes.

If you could be any drink, what would it be? Why? 

I would drink Cosmopolitans poured from a pitcher into a glass, sitting in a tray of ice.  That’s the way they serve them at the Four Seasons here.  It’s a lot of fun and does the trick.

Did you know that hotel minibars—which have been a prominent fixture in hotels since the mid 70s–are an endangered species? I hadn’t noticed, but then I recently came across this elegy for the minibar in the Atlantic magazine.

Apparently, big hotel chains such as Marriotts, Hiltons and Hyatts are phasing out refrigerated minibars. When I think of it, the last few hotels I’ve visited have had scaled down versions of the minibar, such as baskets of unrefrigerated snacks and bottles of water. So what about the booze?

The author of the Atlantic piece writes how “the minibar is an essential part of being alone, which is what hotels are about… a faithful sentry that had stayed up late and kept me company in times of danger and personal sorrow. It had never failed to deliver something—liquor, candy, clean T-shirts, fresh socks—that made me feel less alone.”

For me, the minibar has nothing to do with being alone, as I’ve mostly traveled with other people. Rather, the minibar equals a decadent part of being on vacation, where you don’t even have to leave your room to have a party.

On our honeymoon in Spain, my husband and I were thrilled to spend half the day in bed, partaking of the wine and champagne in the minibar. It was part of the laziness of being away, of being on vacation. You didn’t even have to bother to dial room service to have a drink or a snack. You barely had to move.

Maybe some people will be relieved when minibars are phased out. How must it feel to be a recovering alcoholic, knowing that the alcohol over which you’ve admitted being powerless is just a few steps away?

What do you think, readers: Do you love minibars, or dread them?

Each week, we post short interviews with interesting people about their thoughts and feelings on women and drinking. There is such a wide array of perspectives about this topic, and we are excited to gain insight into as many as possible and to share them with you.

Rachelle Bergstein is a writer and editor whose first book, Women from the Ankle Down: The Story of Shoes and How They Define Us (Harper) was was named one of the New York Times’ top beach reads of Summer 2012.  Bergstein’s fiction and nonfiction have appeared in The Awl, Slice, Bloomberg View, WSJ Speakeasy, Slate DoubleX and HelloGiggles, among others.  She lives in Brooklyn with her husband and her cat and can be found on Twitter at @RaBergstein.

How old were you when you had your first drink and what was it?

Rachelle Bergstein: If you don’t count the bottle caps full of beer that my Dad used to give me when I was 3, then I was probably about 15.  My best friend and I made a plan.  We filled plastic thermoses with gin and Snapple – because that’s what we could get our hands on – and took them into the graveyard next door to my house, where we used to hang out because it was quiet and we could be alone (which probably says a lot about that teenage desperation for privacy).  We had no idea how much we were drinking and whether or not we could handle it.  But I remember this: the world shifted for a few hours.  We were laughing and totally in love with the world and each other and ourselves, and we couldn’t stop skipping because we thought it felt magical.  Unfortunately, that feeling only lasted a little while.  When we got back home we were so drunk that I couldn’t fake it with my parents; she drunk dialed a guy she liked and afterwards, started crying; I threw up all over her favorite sweater.  But I think I was lucky because that first real experience with alcohol was instructive: it’s fun, but it needs to be respected.

How did/does your family treat drinking?

It’s complicated.  There’s some problem drinking in the family history and that was made very clear to me from an early age.  But we also all enjoy drinking at some meals and celebrations and are comfortable with that.  So, for instance, that night in high school – I was totally busted and my Mom grounded me, but I think she also recognized that as a teenager, it’s pretty normal to be experimenting.

Have you ever had a phase in your life when you drank more or less?

I know I’m not alone in saying that I drank more in college than I do now, and more than I probably should have, but I think my early 20s was the worst.  I had moved to New York along with a group of friends from school, and we got very caught up in the nightlife-oriented, city-that-never-sleeps mentality.  My first job here was as a cocktail waitress, so I was serving drinks until 3 am at least 3 nights a week, and then wanting to mimic what I was seeing at work in my personal life.  And later, when I got a day job and started to have real responsibilities, my friends and I would go crazy on Friday nights, I think in part to hang onto that carefree, college lifestyle that is really undermined by having to get up at 7AM and give it your all 40+ hours a week.

Now in my 30s, I definitely look back on those times and wonder how the hell I drank as much as I did.  First of all, I’m petite so I’m buzzed off of one drink.  But I don’t feel the same need to party like I used to.  I think I’ve found ways to make my real life more satisfying.  Don’t get me wrong, I love having dinner with my friends or just my husband and getting tipsy.  But I honestly have no patience anymore for a hangover.

What’s your drink of choice?  Why?

I like white wine and beer (see: one-drink-drunk) and these days, I’ll have an Aperol and soda if I’m feeling fancy.  My husband’s a cocktail guy but I really can’t handle a Manhattan, so that’s my version.

Can you tell us about the best time you ever had drinking?

My husband (then live-in-boyfriend) had a work conference in Antwerp and I decided to join him.  It was our first big trip together.  A few nights in we came across the Pelican Bar, a hole in the wall with a literary theme.  I knew about Belgian beer from a beer-themed pub I worked at one summer.  We had one cheap Leffe Blond after another, talking and laughing and digging into our feelings in a way we hadn’t necessarily done before.  When we finished the streets were dark, but on our way back to the hotel we stumbled into the strangest oasis: a late-night spot called Park Avenue Karaoke.  We had to go in and I’m glad we did — it was filled with attractive young Dutch people singing American pop songs.  Amazing.

The next morning I felt horrendous and I learned another lesson: never go drink-for-drink with a man.  But in our relationship, we’ve gotten through some big life questions over a good meal and a few glasses of wine.  I think we’re both naturally a little guarded so a little alcohol can help us talk about things that might feel challenging otherwise.  But um, obviously more than a “little” can take a conversation in an entirely wrong direction…

What about the worst time?

I’ve gotten into a crappy fight or two with someone I love, but overall, I’m lucky.  Deep down I’m pretty responsible, so even when I was playing at being a party girl, I never got into too much trouble.  Mainly, I said a lot of dumb stuff, danced like a fool – which I also do sober —  and in the worst cases, got really sick.  And boy, have I gotten sick.  My “worst times” probably all involve puke.

Do you have a favorite book, song or movie about drinking?

It’s not about drinking but “Notting Hill” has some of my favorite drinking scenes of all time.  I think that movie shows drinking at its best: dinner parties, wine, great friends, silliness, honesty. “Lit” by Mary Karr is another standout: a memoir about her decision to give up booze.  Oh, and I’ve always loved “Coconut” by Harry Nilsson – is that a song about drinking?  I guess I always imagined him adding a little rum in there with the lime and the coconut.

If you could be any drink, what would you be?  What?

Maybe an Aperol Spritz: bubbly, elegant, and a little bit weird.

To our readers:

After nearly four years of blogging here at Drinking Diaries, we have decided to continue with alternative projects–Caren with her feature and travel writing; Leah with her young adult fiction writing.

We will continue to post here once per week, on Wednesdays, for who knows how long. Needless to say, there is an abundance of compelling content already here on the blog; you just need to dig a little.

We’d love to continue hearing from you on the Share Your Stories page.

As you may know, we’ve also been blogging for the Huffington Post and Psychology Today.

Our book, Drinking Diaries: Women Serve Their Stories Straight Up, was published last September, 2012. The book continues to have a presence, as we travel around the country for readings and book club visits. Please contact us if you’d like us to participate (even via Skype) with your book club or women’s group discussion.

Lastly, we’d like to thank you–your comments have inspired and energized us, stirring lively discussions and debates. The Drinking Diaries community may not always agree with one another, yet the banter has always remained respectful. Our goal to keep this blog non-judgmental has been a success thanks to you.

See you on Wednesdays,

Caren & Leah

Co-editors, Drinking Diaries

*find us on our Drinking Diaries Facebook page, or follow us on twitter: @CarenOsten and @Leaheps

By Kate Robinson

In 19 days I will have a year sober.

In 19 days it will be one year since I was lying on the couch at 4:30 in the afternoon with the two bottles of wine I would mix with diet Ginger Ale and vodka until I would gently pass out around six pm before my boyfriend could even walk through the door to talk me out of it.

It become clear to me now that I was trying to kill myself, but wanted to choose a method that a) wouldn’t hurt, b) wouldn’t take my air and c) would give me plenty of opportunities to back out. Alcohol met all three requirements, with the added benefit of anesthetizing my brain into a white room of quiet equanimity where I was able to simply exist.

That first drink of the evening (or morning) felt as if I had taken a steady slow inhale, the second drink was a warm and gentle yawn, and the third drink was the sweetest exhale I have ever known.

It must be excusable, I must forgive myself.

I had good reason to drink.

Things happened. I was born.

This is where I could undress my pedestrian traumas, and otherwise… but instead choose to trust that human suffering is human suffering.

I had good reason to drink.

I say this again in order to assuage my sense of guilt, my shame, I say this because saying “I drank my medicine” feels self-indulgent. Maybe it isn’t, but still I must take responsibility for all the times I chose oblivion over waking.

In this past year, I have painfully and reluctantly come to believe that my agency is to be preserved and protected, and when I drink I am forfeiting the reins hitched to what sense of self I have. But I do miss being an observer, I miss the quiet-passivity, stillness and warmth of being drunk.

I have given myself brain damage. I do not know if it will heal.

I can’t remember the exact moment I decided not to drink until my breath slowed and my heart gave out. What I do remember is that I prayed to the saints of my childhood for help.

They were bashfully mute.

I have a picture of myself at two years old on my mother’s lap, sharing my complete joy and surprise over the jack-in-the-box I was holding performing its one function, and performing it well. My mother’s face was of a feigned surprise, that sweet half opened mouth with eyebrows vaulted in pride that she had made me, and I was on her lap—safe and round and hers.

A treasured shrink of mine once told me to think of myself as a mother, and imagine how I would treat my two-year-old self. Would I put stale wine and vodka in a bottle and feed this theoretical baby this poison everyday until the child would sweat and tremor in the elixir’s absence? I can say with certainty, No.

Like a hologram, I projected an image into the future, as my present was walking on razors.

It stands to logic then, that I should be able to transfer this sense of protecting and cherishing of a theoretical baby to my actual grown-ass self.

That worked, to a point.

I must pause for a minute to mourn my loss of memory. Not just the memory lost from a blackout, but the brain damage I suffered from long years of binge drinking.

There are holes all over my life, and at times this is a simple mercy, because perhaps my heart could not bare the damage I have done. At this moment it is an albatross, because I cannot conjure moments from my recent past that matter.

My heart fills with what feels like a heated vinegar and I must arm wrestle my tears for sovereignty over my eyes. When I salvage what memories I still have I do remember something–either a yoga teacher, a therapist, a friend, a book, a commercial, a box of tampons. I remember hearing the advice that what decisions you make today will either bring you a step closer, or a step further away from the version of yourself you want to become.

What would that person say to this sick, hurting lady on the couch?

What is her life like? What is she wearing? What does her average day look like? How does she make a living? Get as specific as possible…(This came from the brilliant Ana Forrest’s book “Fierce Medicine.” All that tear grappling for nothing.)

Anyway—I did what she said, and I am slowly crafting myself into the adult woman I would most like to be.

I was surprised at what I saw.

She was roughly my height (thank Jesus) she had long straggly hair (done!) She was near the ocean, with a big rescue dog. She put food on the table with her words and as she walked towards me she folded forward corking her hands into the sand, and lofted her feet into an effortless handstand.

It was as clear as a painless stigmata, that if I intended to be whole I was going to have yoga in my life.

In Fierce Medicine, Ana talks about her sun-salutations being her 12 steps. My relationship with AA is hot and cold. It did me so much good in the beginning, but as time passed I began to find my steadiness in other packages. I have not quit AA, I do not bemoan it, I merely accept that we are in the throes of a constant lover’s quarrel.

One of those land-angels who wears a lot of black.

The reality is less pastel, and surviving long enough to have an opportunity to heal was, in short: rigorous.

My detox was long. My post-acute withdrawal symptoms were many and they were vocal. Getting on the T to get to yoga, or my job, or the facility I attended a day program for addiction took all of my strength.

It took about seven months before I could travel without going pale and feeling nauseous to the point of salivating. When I think of how much heavier I was in both my physical and spiritual body, I shudder.

I was lucky that the day I was released from detox, I signed up for my first sober yoga class at Back Bay Yoga. I walked into an afternoon Forrest class taught by Nicole Clark. I was scared. I took whatever piece of literary fiction I was attempting, and read until class started. I kept a book, any book near my mat at all times. Nicole became, in short order, one of the people that (if you are lucky) arrive in the landscape of your life and change the backdrop.

What I am clumsily trying to say is, I found a teacher who made me feel safe and welcome, and that in some way I belonged on the mat, that I would not always sweat vodka.

The Gift of My Hand Tremor.

I am not all better.

I still crave getting wasted. I still get weepy when I think of what I have done to myself, and the people around me.

I have started to find some quiet warmth and a touch of oblivion on my mat. The more I practice, the better it gets.

I am only almost sober for a year, and they say the first year is for your body, the second for your mind. I don’t appreciate that breed of algorithm, but it is useful for me to think that it can always get better, that I am not done getting better.

I am not finished healing.

My hands wear a tremor.

Whenever I lift them to my partner’s face, grip a pencil too tightly, or hold a gesticulation too long, it is noticeable. For me the trembling is a gift.

It’s what gives me away to people with vivid imaginations. It’s what keeps me honest, and prevents any cockiness about my sobriety. It is a reminder of what I have done, and where I have been, and how important it is to stop trying to jump off every bridge made of steel, or words that I cross.

I know my addiction hasn’t gone anywhere, that she is just lifting weights in the basement of my brain. I know I still can’t execute a graceful handstand, and that my apartment won’t allow dogs. I know that there is work to be done and mistakes to be made.

I know I do not have to fret about most things. That if I can just be here, now—not forever fleeing—that my future will take care of itself. I know that staying awake is my one function, and I am just beginning to perform it well.

Kate Robinson is a yoga teacher in and around Boston. She received her certification at Back Bay Yoga. She also is the author of the book “Darling Angel Meat” from Shoe Music Press and has her MFA in Poetry and Literature from Bennington. She doesn’t fit in most Lululemon clothes, and frankly could give a damn. You can read more of her musings on Facebook.

 Note: Reprinted with Permission of the author. This piece originally ran online in Elephant Journal

Recently, we were contacted by CJ Fleming, a graduate student at Clark University in Worcester, MA. She is seeking volunteers to participate in a survey she is conducting on couples and alcohol use. CJ is currently working on her dissertation, which focuses on the spouse’s role in a person’s decision to seek help for alcohol use issues. The study is designed for married couples for whom alcohol use is an area of disagreement in their marriage, and is intended for people at all levels of alcohol intake.

If you think you might be interested in participating in her study, please read the flyer below. Here is the link to the survey: https://surveys.clarku.edu/AlcoholUseSurveyStart.aspx

This study has been approved by the Clark Committee for the Rights of Human Participants in Research and Training Programs (IRB). Any questions about human rights issues should be directed to the IRB Chair, Dr. James P. Elliott, 508-793-7152, jelliott@clarku.edu. The study is being conducted by C.J. Fleming, M.A. and James Cordova, Ph.D. in the Psychology Department at Clark University. Please feel free to contact the researcher ( alcoholusesurveyemail@gmail.com ) or the research supervisor ( jcordova@clarku.edu ) with any questions or concerns.

Each week, we post short interviews with interesting people about their thoughts and feelings on women and drinking. There is such a wide array of perspectives about this topic, and we are excited to gain insight into as many as possible and to share them with you.

Toronto-based writer and branding consultant, Liz Beatty, is a frequent contributor to National Geographic Traveler, among others.  She’s currently working on a manuscript of essays about, among other things, how big ugly flaws make for brilliant parenting.

How old were you when you had your first drink and what was it? 

My “Mad Men” vintage parents drank two things that I remember:  Manhattans and Deinhard Green Label white wine. I recall pilfering sips of both at about age six or seven, but neither appealed to me, then or now.

Growing up, how did your family treat drinking? 

My dad, who died of cancer almost 20 years ago, didn’t drink until he was 33 for fear that he’d become like his alcoholic father.  This fact was deeply embedded in family lore from early on, although I didn’t know then how his experience with his dad would shape me.  By the time I came along, he and mom  began sharing a cocktail every evening.  Certainly the hard liquor flowed, the ashtrays filled and the voices grew boisterous when their good friends came over, often with kids mingling about — again, all very “Mad Men.”

How do you approach alcohol in your every day life?

It’s never been a conscious thing and it’s changed over time.  Nowadays, we almost never drink during the week. A glass or two over dinner or at a party on the weekend is the norm.

If you have kids, how is the subject of drinking handled? Do you drink in front of them? With them?  

It sounds more planned to say we’ve taken a European approach  —  never making a big deal about drinking or not drinking.  We drink occasionally in front of the kids.  If they were curious when they were younger, we gave them a sip.  As they got older,  we’d sometimes offer them a splash of something for a toast on a special occasion.  My eldest is just now of drinking age and essentially chooses to abstain, completely his decision. I am, however, point blank with my boys about this  — our extended family is a grab bag of non-addictive and totally addictive personalities, some tragically so. I tell them that you can’t know for sure which category you’ll fall into, so be mindful in your choices.

Have you ever had a phase in your life when you drank more or less? 

Absolutely. When the kids were young, I drank a lot more. My eldest struggled with learning disabilities and with the inimitable hypervigilence of a first-time mother, I channeled everything into helping him navigate the first and very difficult 12 or 13 years of his life.  Among other things, he was depressed at times and I drank often to stave off my own emotional burnout. He eventually turned a corner (now a happy solid university student) and my body began rejecting any level of regular drinking. Things might have gone differently if my constitution had been hardier.

Can you tell us about the best time you ever had drinking? 

The first week of first year university, I killed a bottle of cheap Chianti sitting in the residence hallway with my soon-to-be lifelong friend, Roadzy.  We were disentangling riddles of western philosophy.  We were young, unencumbered and with every sip, more brilliant, more fabulous.

What do you like most about drinking?

Funny, the less I drink, the more I enjoy it.  I’m no longer so unthinking about it, as I was binging in university or decompressing as a frazzled young mother.  Nowadays, I guess all my rituals are more considered — morning coffee, my 13-year-old’s Saturday hockey game,  an aperitif on friday night.  I’m more present to enjoy them and then, I guess, more satisfied when they’re over. In short, I’m getting old.

If you could be any drink, what would it be? Why? 

I’d be the first sip of a perfect gin and tonic swallowed on the dock of a cottage bay with the July sun setting, kids inside setting up Scrabble and nothing but two weeks of classic WWII spy novels ahead.  To my mind, all other drinks aspire to be this.

Such idyllic confluences of time, place and drug speak to my personal root of addiction. Like when I smoked.  One in 1,000 cigarettes was truly great — end of day, no kids around to corrupt, sitting with smart articulate fellow smokers, no judgement, libation in hand, the mood almost giddy as I take my first drag off that first cigarette in several hours.  The other 999 smokes in between were just chasing that moment.  I imagine if my body had allowed me to become addicted to alcohol, it would have been the same.

How has alcoholism affected your life? 

My dad always struggled to put in its place the uncertainty of growing up with an alcoholic father.  A brilliant, kind man, dad feared deeply uncontrollable outcomes.  Looking back, I saw this dread in his obsession with safety, in his timid financial decisions and even in his anxiety level with the normal chaos of our sibling conflicts.  It took some years to connect this to my own control issues and occasional amorphous angst.  Recently, I found an old photo of my dad at age 23 with academic robes hanging off his sinewy young frame.  He was graduating that day, top of his class, from one of Canada’s most revered law schools.  Only grandma stood beside him.  He’d told me this story many times and there it was — his father just hadn’t showed up.  In the end, dad found a way to triumph over all this — he always showed up for me.

by Ronna Benjamin

My friend Tammy had troubles, but it took me awhile to figure it out. She was a redhead who smoked menthols, loved music, dancing and beer.  Her father was a judge–a real one, but she herself was totally non-judgmental.

Tammy was the friend that held the ice to my ear Freshman year and then pierced a second hole in my left lobe, sterilizing the needle with the alcohol from our sloe gin fizzes.  She would drag me to frat parties,  grab a beer and start dancing, while I stood awkwardly in a corner complaining about the sticky floor.

I was one of the girls who left the party early, but Tammy always stayed and regaled us with great stories the next day. But as we got to be juniors and then seniors, the stories became increasingly uncomfortable to hear. There were times she slept with multiple men in one evening.  There were times when she blacked out.  There were times she woke up in places she did not want to be.

There was the time she came back to the dorm drunk at 3:00 am and burnt half her arm making popcorn.  There was the time she tearily told me she was pregnant, traces of gin on her breath, and pleaded with me to bring her to Planned Parenthood. I had driven halfway there the next day before she told me it wasn’t true–she wasn’t pregnant.  Never was.  It  was just her idea of a joke.  That almost ended our friendship, but I hung in there.

I knew there was something different about what happened when Tammy drank, but I wanted to be non judgmental too.  By day and on weeknights, Tammy was fine.  She studied, went to movies and plays, joined us for dinner, and did really well in her classes.  I thought once we graduated and she got a job, things would be different.  We were in college, after all.

In 1981, Tammy came to visit me at my apartment in Boston where I was in my first year of law school.  We went out on the town, but after a while, I wanted to go home.  She insisted I leave; told me she was having fun and would take a cab home.  Tammy got home safely in the early hours of the morning; but the next day she told me she had shared a bottle of vodka and slept with the cab driver.

And that is when I ended the friendship.

Telling Tammy that I thought she was an alcoholic was the hardest thing I ever did as a young woman, and amongst the hardest things that I have ever had to do.  I didn’t have the balls to tell her in person.  I called her from the safety of my bedroom, reading the words off a legal pad because I was so nervous. “Tammy, I think you have a problem with alcohol.  I think you are an alcoholic, and I cannot be friends with you until you get help.”  I described some of her behaviors that made me think so.  I described the hurt and worry she was causing me.  She said nothing, and hung up.

That was 32 years ago, and that was the last time I talked to Tammy, but it wasn’t the last time I thought about her.  As the years passed, I Googled her name.  Tammy was the first name I searched on Facebook.  One day, about a year ago, she “friended” me.  I barely recognized her picture, she had aged so. We had a brief FB exchange, but neither of us mentioned the alcohol.

A few months later, Tammy started a game with me on Words With Friends.  And I knew from those games that something wasn’t quite right.  She couldn’t get beyond 13 points.  She left spaces for triple words open.

I was waiting for Tammy to take her turn on Words With Friends when I read on Facebook that Tammy had died.  She was 53 and died “unexpectedly.”  I was not in her inner circle, so I don’t know the details of her death, and it was not my place to push. I was saddened, but to be honest, not shocked.

I had an alcoholic friend in college.  I told her the truth, abandoned her, and she died at 53.  I wonder now if I should have done something differently.

*This essay was originally published on Better After 50.com

By Lisa Jardine

When I moved to Japan in the fall of 2008, I knew I was in for an adventure but what I didn’t take into consideration was the non-stop party it would be.  I’ve not visited another country in the world where drinking is celebrated more than Japan.  For a country of extremely hard working individuals from birth, with more social rules than a prison, drinking is a socially acceptable way of releasing the pressure valve. And this is nothing new.

The word sake appears in the first written history of Japan circa 712 ad.  In fact, visit any shrine in Japan and I challenge you to NOT find a sake barrel (or 300) stacked beautifully somewhere near the main entryway.  Sake has long been considered the social lubricant in Japan because we all know it’s easier to get to know someone when his or her defenses are down and etiquette is relaxed.  Binge drinking is even promoted.

I’m a big fan of the Nomihodai, an “all you can drink” special, which can be added on at many of the restaurants in Tokyo.  Since there really are no stigma attached to excessive drinking and even vomiting, the only limitation you have on fun is the last train home.  Access to alcohol is pretty easy too.  You can buy it at convenience stores, supermarkets, on trains and even in vending machines.  Let me repeat that.  You can buy alcohol in a vending machine.  Japan is the only country in the world where you can do that. I always loved to point one out to visiting guests.  It was the source of many a souvenir photo.   And if you are an American teenager in Japan, you are not likely to get proofed anywhere.

As you would expect, there are a lot of rules to drinking in Japan.  When in a group, you must never pour yourself a drink but are expected to keep an eye on the glasses of your friends and tablemates regardless of whether they are empty or not.  And hopefully, they are keeping an eye on your glass as well.  There is definitely pressure to drink and to refuse may be taken as an insult by your friends or business associates.

Historically, drinking has mostly been associated with men but as that area of the drinking population has become saturated, alcohol companies have turned their attention towards women.  Chuhai, a mix of low calorie alcohol, carbonated water and fruit juice is the equivalent of alcopop for women – and they are quite tasty and inexpensive.  Drinking during the day is fine too.  Tokyo has one of the most extensive subway systems in the world, making car ownership unnecessary, which practically eliminates drunk driving.  One is more likely to have a beer at lunch if you are taking the train home instead of getting in the car.  The “lunch set” in Japan is the best deal around and most likely the reason for the 20 pounds that I gained while living there.  A big bowl of ramen together with a 16 ounce Sapporo is not exactly spa dining.  I was always surprised with the beverage choices at lunch.  Most Japanese restaurants tend to only offer water, beer, coffee or tea.  Soda is rare and when offered, its sometimes more expensive than alcohol.

It’s a good thing no one really cares about public intoxication because the Japanese have a serious “tell”.  The Asian flush or Asian glow is a result of an accumulation of acetaldehyde, a metabolic byproduct of the catabolic metabolism of alcohol.  In other words, they start to turn bright red after a drink or two, making everyone look very healthy and happy.  If you are lucky enough to one day find yourself in Japan in a small dark izakaya drinking beer, crunching on tiny dried fish, surrounded by healthy looking Japanese, make sure you yell Kampai when raising your glass.  The toast translates to “dry the glass” and you’ll be sure to have it filled as soon as you place it back down on the table.

Lisa Jardine is a freelance writer who has contributed to various publications in Japan, including The Japan Times, Metropolis and In Touch, in addition to being a frequent contributor to CNN Travel. She lives in New York with her husband and four children and is currently working on a YA book based in Tokyo during the 2011 earthquake.  She blogs about life, travel, eating in Asia and New York at www.wasabiwabi.com.

From time to time, we will post short interviews with interesting people about their thoughts and feelings on women and drinking. There is such a wide array of perspectives about this topic, and we are excited to gain insight into as many as possible and to share them with you.

Lesley Arfin is the author of the book, Dear Diary, based on a column she wrote for Vice Magazine. The former Editor-In-Chief of Missbehave magazine, Lesley has written columns for websites such as Street Carnage, Buzz Net, Thought Catalog, and Rookie. She penned the introduction to the 2010 interior design/photo book The Selby: In Your Place. She currently works as a writer on the HBO series Girls, the MTV series Awkward, and has also contributed to TV shows Portlandia and Girlhattan.

Drinking Diaries: How old were you when you had your first drink and what was it?

Lesley Arfin: My first drink without my parents watching was a bottle of whiskey that I chugged in the woods with a bunch of boys in the dead of winter. I was 12 and a half.

How did/does your family treat drinking?

Jews aren’t real big drinkers. They drink wine at dinner I guess but it’s not a big deal and no one is ever drunk. I doubt there’s ever beer or hard alcohol at my mom’s house.

How do you approach alcohol in your everyday life?

I have been sober for almost 8 years now so it’s not a part of my life really.

What’s your drink of choice? Why?

When I drank, I really loved whiskey. I loved whiskey and Coke; put whiskey in coffee, whatever. Beer made me tired and full, vodka tasted like rubbing alcohol, and wine made me talk to walls. Now my drink of choice–if I’m really going for a mocktail–is ginger ale with a splash of bitters and lemon. Usually I’m lazy about it and just get ice water or a Diet Coke. I’ll drink an O’Doul’s, too.

Can you tell us about the best time you ever had drinking?

I remember this one day in college, towards the end of the year. It was really nice out, and we were just sitting around being bored. It was maybe 2 pm and we thought, “Let’s get a keg!” This was something we never did because I was an art student, and “kegs” were only for parties and considered a bit pedestrian, maybe. We drank cheap whiskey and PBR and everything, but kegs of beer were not the norm. So anyway, we got this keg in the afternoon and we funneled and I’m sure someone did a keg stand or something, all of these college-like things that we had always been too arty or cool for or whatever. As we kept drinking, more and more people showed up and joined the fun. I just remember laughing so hard that day, so many people were doing funny things, it was one of those days that a million private jokes happen like, in a row, and everyone is just being awesome. No drama, no hysterics, no throwing bikes into windows. Just a real good drunk day.

What about the worst time?

I was in the Bahamas, my senior year of high school. We all went there for like a “senior trip.” I really liked this guy and we had hooked up one night, just kissed. I was really happy about it. I didn’t have sex with him because I think I was just kind of afraid, but the next night I was like, “tonight I am definitely gonna do it.” I guess he wasn’t really paying attention to me and it made me feel bad, so I kept drinking and drinking and I was only 18 and didn’t know about mixing different kinds of booze, like “beer before liquor, never get sicker,” or maybe like “don’t fucking drink red wine and then tequila and then smoke pot,” or maybe even “don’t ever drink Jaegermeister, ever.” Needless to say, I did not have sex with Jason Miller that night, or any night, ever again, for the rest of my life. I prefer blacking out to puking. However, that night, I managed to do both.

Do you have a favorite book, song, or movie about drinking?

There’s a song by The Magnetic Fields called “Love Is Like A Bottle Of Gin” and the lyrics are perfect. I also love the book by Augusten Burroughs, Dry. A lot of people have written books about drinking but his is my favorite. I love that book so much. My favorite movie about drinking is probably “When A Man Loves A Woman.” I just realized that everything I’ve listed here are all kind of bummers about drinking. Like they’re all about alcoholism. Sorry? I mean, I like “The Hangover,” too. “Superbad” is all about drinking, too! Yeah, “Superbad” is my favorite movie ever!

Why do, or don’t you, choose to drink?

To be honest if I had the choice, I would still drink. The problem with me is that booze turns me into such a freak show, it actually costs me my ability to choose. Well, I guess I do have a choice technically but it’s not “drink or don’t drink” it’s like “live or die.” When I drink, a switch goes off in my brain that is like “keep going at all costs and don’t stop,” and really that train leads to drugs rather than just more drinks, because I prefer drugs to drinking. I’ve tried to control it so many times and I just can’t. It’s hard to explain unless you have it yourself. Trying to control it turned out to be a much bigger pain in the ass and way more taxing on my psyche than anything else, so I just dropped it all together. Not drinking has been working out pretty well for me. It’s better, actually. If it wasn’t better I wouldn’t do it.

If you could be any drink, what would it be? Why?

Sloe Gin Fizz because it sounds cool, or Long Island Iced Tea because that just makes sense.

Photo Source 1

Note: This interview originally appeared on the blog in May, 2010. 

by Dee Dee Acquisto

We got the phone call around 10:30 pm on a Sunday night.  Our good friend had been in an accident, and his wife–his childhood sweetheart and the mother of his two children–had been killed.  Ted* was  in a hospital in New Jersey, with 10 broken ribs and a concussion. In shock.  No doubt.  He was now a widower.   This had happened as they pulled into their own driveway, after going out to dinner.  They had left their 18-year old son home.  He heard the crash and rushed outside in time to watch in horror as his mother died before his eyes.  The driver who killed Arlene* fell drunkenly out of the car and passed out on the front lawn.   Ted was told that his wife was dead as he was being evacuated by helicopter to the hospital.

The drunk driver, a 40-year-old, bleach-blonde ex-L.A. actress had left a party drunk, and gotten into her car to drive home. Neither her husband, nor anyone else at the two parties she had attended that day had taken away her car keys, or prevailed upon her to drive her home.  Along the way, she rear-ended another car stopped at a red light.  She then sped away from the scene of that accident, careening down dark, two-lane roads at speeds over 50 miles per hour, so as to evade the night’s first victim, who followed in pursuit of her license plate number. Our friends were turning into their own driveway, after a quiet dinner out.  The actress’s SUV jumped the curb and slammed into the passenger side of their small sedan.

The actress and her crackerjack defense team didn’t dispute her nearly .27 blood alcohol content.  Yes, she was drunk, they said.  But she wouldn’t have lost control of the car had she not been pursued.  Yes, she was drunk, they said.  But Ted turned too slowly into his own driveway. The defense team seemed to treat the fact that she was nearly three times the legal limit of .08 as incidental. As if the accident was not her fault at all. As if her irresponsible over-consumption of alcohol was as unimportant as the color of her Tahoe. And the actress seemed to concur. In fact, at no time during the trial did she ever admit culpability. At no time during the trial did she ever say “I am deeply sorry.”

The trial lasted two months, and cost both the state of New Jersey and the actress hundreds of thousands of dollars.  She was convicted on the lesser of two counts, and she spent almost three months in jail awaiting sentencing. In anticipation of the sentencing, those of us who loved Arlene–and watched her family struggle on without her–wrote letters requesting that the actress be given the maximum sentence.

I wrote one of those letters, not without mixed feelings. I am a recovering alcoholic. I wrote one of those letters, requesting that the actress go to prison, to compensate, even if inadequately, for some of the life she drunkenly stole from Arlene.

Now perhaps I should have compassion “for those of us still sick and suffering, both in and out of these rooms” as the 12-Step programs suggest. Perhaps I should remind myself, “there but for the grace of God go I” as is further recommended. Perhaps I need to work on forgiveness.  Perhaps I will get there someday. But for now, this is what  I know and what speaks loudest to me: that until the day of her sentencing, (when, not incidentally, it might favorably  impact the judge’s decision), the actress never publicly  acknowledged her part in Arlene’s death. No admission of responsibility. No acceptance of blame; in fact, she and her defense team tried in every way possible to divert responsibility for Arlene’s death to the victims. (Exactly how fast is a driver supposed to turn into his own driveway?).  That was so wrong.

This is what I also know:  that until I admitted and accepted what my drinking had done to me, my children and my family, I could not truly recover. Until I could publicly say “I am Dee Dee and I am an alcoholic” –until I could truly acknowledge and accept the consequences of my behavior (what some of us call “wreckage”), I could not and would not recover.

It appears, however, that killing a wife, a mother of two, a daughter, a beloved sister,  a cherished friend, a gifted, beautiful and artistic spirit–seriously injuring her husband, and leaving her sons without their mother–has not been enough to convince the actress that she is responsible.  She seems to believe it really wasn’t her fault.

And apparently the judge agrees.

In the courtroom on March 1st, he pronounced a sentence of three years, the minimum allowed by law. Given the current judicial/penal system, this means that the actress will probably only serve 85 percent of this sentence (30.6 months) minus approximately three months time already served. That calculates to about 2 years and 3 months in jail.  For taking a human life while driving while intoxicated, that sentence is a slap on the wrist. There are individuals doing harder time than that for selling weed.  Paraphrasing Arlene’s distraught son after the sentencing, “She took my mother’s life, not her necklace.”

Of course I realize that no amount of prison time will bring our friend back. But I was hoping that in receiving the maximum sentence allowed by law, the actress might begin to acknowledge and accept her responsibility for this crime, and might use that knowledge to redeem her own life and make it something estimable and worth saving. But no, the message is clear:  the penalties for taking a life while driving drunk in New Jersey are minimal and moderately inconvenient–like being sent  away to a rather spartan community college.  Maybe she can start a theater group there.

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