Share Your Stories

I was 12 years old when I had my first drink. Not my first sip of alcohol or tiny taste, but my first full drink. I was home alone like I was every day and I looked in the cabinet and saw a bottle of vodka. I knew what it was and I wanted to know what it tasted like. I got out a glass and poured some in it. I thought it was disgusting, but I still finished it. I drank only about twice after that. When I turned 13 I started drinking again. I was in 8th grade when I first got drunk and I thought it felt extremely awesome. I got drunk off of a drink called ‘Strip and Go Naked’. I loved it! It was beer, vodka, and lemonade mixed together. I thought that it wouldn’t do anything to me and I would be fine. It affected my friends and I felt bad about, but I was too selfish to stop. I’m almost 14 and I still plan on getting drunk every time I get the chance to be home alone. I know I probably will after school on Monday and I’m looking forward to it. I’ve done a lot of bad things and I’ve stopped all those so it won’t seem so bad to drink. I know it is and I’ll probably do it for a while and eventually stop. It’s too good to stop right now.

Sincerity and Common Sense…

So let’s say you just got out of a ten day detox and are back at home with your 6 year old kid. Life isn’t so good – you have a cocaine habit and a shitty attitude and you get pissed off easily but you love the kid and want it to work out with the good guy husband even though he is a bit mamby pamby and your favorite response to “how do you like your coffee?’ is “black, same as I like my men.” but he puts up with your massive amounts of bullshit so you really mean it this time – no more coke, no more self indulgent out bursts – just stay clean and live sober.

A week later – who the fuck knows what happened, maybe you took a double dose of your meds and got confused but you wake up and who knows what time it is but you need some food and there is an all night joint on the corner and hubby and the kid are asleep so you head out and order up some eggs but it turns out that the double dose of meds or whatever confused you and it it is not 1:00 AM it is like 5:00 AM and the kid woke up and the husband who works the night shift is not home so you rush back to your building and there are the sirens and the cops have your kid who had woken up and wandered in the building until a neighbor called the cops and they haul you into jail and now it is serious freak out time because the Judge doesn’t care what your court appointed lawyer is saying about why you were not home and Judge probably figures you are a lying junkie anyway so boom, court order of protection – you cannot see or talk to your kid for at least 30 days and Child Protective Services is called. So fuck it, you get released from jail, go home grab a few items, some tools and jewelery and you sell like $2,000 worth of stuff for $200 of crack and you get high and the next day, strung out, you call the rehab and say – can I come back I really fucked up again.

And you go back to rehab and your roommate is nothing like the one you had last time – the accountant wife of a lawyer who was over doing the red wine at dinner but who you got along with like a sister – this new roommate is some sort of psycho who the other patients tell you is crazy. And when you wake up half your clothes are in her closet and the $31 in cash you had in your pocket is gone and you tell that bitch that if she does not give you your money back you are going to kill her. Now you are in rounds and being told that threatening violence is an automatic discharge but since they found $31 in the bitch roommate’s pocket you can stay but your grounds privileges are revoked and you say- “What the fuck, she stole from me and I get punished? I was set up – this is bullshit – if you make me eat lunch on the unit I am outta here.”

And so here’s the sincerity and common sense part of the story. There is this guy who volunteers on the unit. Bit of a nerd, likes his coffee light, extra sweet. A nice guy, sort of bland but weirdly sincere and long on common sense no matter how crazy. And the common sense nerd says “jeepers, in the scheme of things, isn’t it like not really that big a deal that you have to eat on the unit instead of going to the cafeteria? I mean even if it is totally unfair and unjust, it somehow seems like not such a hardship, especially compared to some of the hardships you have endured and by the way, if you leave before you complete treatment you can pretty much forget about getting the order of protection revoked anytime soon. This self righteous thing you have going on, that is your disease, it is genius, it knows you did not do anything wrong, it knows the psycho bitch stole from you and it knows all you did was defend yourself. so it gives you this irrefutable argument, it says you are right, it says fuck them, but that is because it knows you think being right matters, defending yourself matters, not being taken advantage of matters” … but then the nerdy guy adds, “wait a minute, does it matter? restricted to the unit vs. getting custody of your kid back, vs getting treatment, getting your $31 back vs. leaving here early and going out and using and getting busted again?”

And she smiles (great smile, a million bucks right there) and she says, “You are right, you know what, all I need is a cup of hot coffee and then I will be fine, I will have lunch on the unit”. And nerd says, “Great I will get you a cup of coffee, how do you take it?” and she says, “large and black, like my men.” You bring her coffee, she says thanks. Nerd says, “See you tomorrow”.

Nerd goes home. Wonders if she will beat up the roommate tonight and get kicked out and not be there tomorrow when he comes back.

hmmm. i’m going to skip right to the point. I am numb. Drinking is making me “feel” but also ” numbing” me from life. I currently am in this mindset: I have a life many would envy. single, 47, never married, no kids. no responsibilties except my career. I am easy on the eyes–not to sound arrogant…I am a nurse…I have made many bad choices with men—yes–the “martyr,underdog,savior, etc. however, i have freed myself from all because i know i deserve better…i am not a sucker. i would rather be alone…as i am very independent. i keep an “arms legnth” from EVERYONE. surely that is not healthy. ok. so back to drinking. for the last two years, after my dog died (love of my life of 11 yrs) i used beer to numb. i now have got ahold on my grief, but still enjoy beer as if it is my only friend. i drink alone, i do not socialize–i was a bartender for 14 years – now a nurse for 18. antisocial to a degree—for serenity. but bored with myself, my dog is gone, i do not know what to do with myself. older now, i do not have the desire to go out and party, date, socialize etc. i am spent. i am happy with my solitude, love it! nursing has sucked the life out of me, though it is my true calling, it is where i belong. it is my identity. my only identity. i do not participate in life outside of work. i feel i am a walking shell–the walking dead. beer helps me “feel” as it also “numbs” does that make sense? this is a rant, sorry. i drink more than i ever have before. it is my friend. good ole budwieser. as a medical professional- i see the demise before me if i keep it up. my tolerance is quite huge. i am a “closet” drinker. just getting this off my chest…did not even proof read, read any entries before mine–just went to town. thanks for reading.

I thought I”d send this in case you decide to do a parallel project on men and alcohol. Thanks.

Remembrance of My Father, Albert H. DeCocker
Gary DeCoker

Dad’s obituary appropriately ended up on a page adjacent to the sports page. Perfect place for a man who loved sports. He always said he was going to live until the Lions won the Super Bowl. He didn’t make it, and the way the Lions are playing most of the rest of the family won’t live to see that day either.

Dad was most passionate when talking about sports. As a child, I remember hearing loud arguments between Dad and his father about baseball. They spoke in Flemish so I didn’t understand much, except the recurring curse words, but from what I know Grandpa would tease Dad saying that the games were fake–it was decided beforehand who would win.

But for Dad, sports were real, a chance for men to show their stamina and toughness. A few months ago, when Dad came back from one of his surgeries, we were talking about how he needed to do more walking to improve his circulation. “Why don’t you get up and get the paper,” I said. (He hadn’t walked to the paper box in front of the house for many weeks because of the pain in his legs.) He took the challenge, grabbed his walker and pushed by me on his way through the garage to the paper box. When I tried to help, he said, “I don’t need any help; just let me do it.” Then, as he sat back in his chair with the paper, he smirked, “There. Are you satisfied? Now leave me alone so I can read my paper.”

It was typical Dad, the tough guy from Detroit, showing whoever was watching that he could do whatever he put his mind to. We saw the same toughness these last few weeks as Dad wrestled with death. He expected to win and sometimes would rip out his I-V or get out of bed, probably thinking he’d had enough of this hospital stuff.

But in his darker moments, during midlife, Dad saw himself as weak. He knew that smoking and drinking were ruining his health, but he couldn’t stop. “I lack willpower,” was all he would say. Those 3 words exposed the ruse of his tough guy image, a ruse that took a lot of drink and a dose of comedy to sustain. “Wonderful beverage,” he’d say when he took the day’s first gulp of beer–as soon as he got home on workdays and at about noon on weekends. “Should’ve bought stock in Stroh’s.” A bottle opener, “my church key,” hung on his key ring.

On weekends the empty beer bottles gradually formed a line, single file or 2 abreast as if marching through the garage, or basement, or wherever the day’s project took Dad. A dozen was a typical day. Just past the halfway mark, if he was alone, alcohol’s humor gave way to sadness and often to anger. One autumn Saturday he and my uncle spent most of the day hooking up a massive–by 1950’s standards–TV antenna on the end of a pole, which they then strapped to the chimney on top of our Detroit house. Objective: Overcome the football home-game blackout. By the time it was over, the chimney, with a couple dozen empty bottles wound around it, looked like a turret, adorned with the antenna rising high above, a conquering flag. The next day the Lion’s home game, all the way from a Lansing TV station, fuzzily appeared on our 10-inch screen. Mission accomplished!

The intensity of Dad’s drinking and smoking (2.5 packs of Camels/day) made what took place in his 79th year truly astounding. Following a 3-month hospital stay after a near-death surgery, Dad emerged clean. He returned home to find his stockpile of 2 cases of beer in the refrigerator, but never opened one of them. Eventually, he packed them up and gave them to one of his buddies along with a couple cartons of Camels, minus one cigarette, which he kept on his workbench for the rest of his life. When I visited home, I’d sometimes catch a glimpse of him with it in his mouth, strutting a bit with the pride of a man who had the willpower to quit.

Mom put the cigarette in the pocket of the shirt that she gave to the mortician. The next day, I asked her about the last 10 years with Dad. “He was wonderful,” she said. I, too, had noticed the change and remember asking Mom about it when he had first quit. “Oh, yes, that’s the man I married. You never knew him,” was her sober response. Those last 10 years were, for Mom, a reunion with the man she had married, and, for me, a chance to get to know the part of my father that went missing early in my childhood.

The one place where Dad embraced his soft side was when he talked about Mom. He knew he had the best possible woman for his wife. I must have heard Dad say a thousand times how lucky he was to be married to Mom. He said it to Dianne and me, to our relatives, and to all of his friends. Mom was the best thing that ever happened to him.

Mom loved Dad, too. She told me once that she used to look out the second-floor, back window of Kalthoff’s Hardware Store, where she worked, to watch Dad come out of the factory every day at 3:15. She also waited 3 years for Dad to return from World War II. “She never gave me a chance,” Dad would joke. “Mom had us married as soon as I got off the boat.” So it was a marriage where both parties started out thinking that they got a pretty good deal, and 64 years later, despite some rocky times along the way, both knew that they had done pretty well by each other.

Gardening was another place that brought out the best in Dad. Every time Pam and I visited during the summer months, there was a rose for us in a vase on the nightstand. Well, I know it was really for Pam. I got corn and tomatoes. Dad loved giving away produce; his only requirement was that you told him that his corn was the best you had ever tasted. And, for me, it really was.

I had the chance to visit Dad’s Belgian relatives a few times–his aunts, cousins, and extended family. When I saw all of the tidy gardens, well-tended lawns, and garages with each tool hung in its place, I understood Dad a bit better. And the beer drinking men of the family helped me build on the realization that he really was only a generation removed from his Belgian roots.

But the one thing I remember from “the old country” is a family party that was held when Pam and I last visited about 10 years ago. In the course of the evening, a dozen or so people, ages 50 to 90, approached to show me an old photo of them with Dad in his army uniform. On a furlough in WWII, Dad had decided to visit the village of his mother. When he arrived, he was a hero by virtue of being an American soldier. But when he spoke to the locals in fluent Flemish, he became a celebrity. I think everyone in that town in 1945 had their photo taken with him.

Dad was a bit of a celebrity around Lexington, too. From his perch on his lawn chair in front of the garage, he greeted walkers, joggers, cyclists, and drivers. And when he walked the harbor walkway, before his legs gave out, the fishermen greeted him by name as he and Mom went by. He was probably most well known at the Post Office or maybe at the gas station where he bought his lottery tickets. He gave up gambling a long time ago. The lottery tickets, for Dad, were just a way for him to show his optimism. He was going to win one day and so were the Lions.

Besides gambling, Dad did a few other things that made him wonder whether he’d be welcome in heaven when his day finally came. But I’m really not worried about that. If the gates did start to swing shut upon his arrival, I am certain that Dad pushed on through with an optimistic smile and talked his way to a comfortable place among the blessed.

These last few months have been difficult for Mom, Dianne, and me. Now that I’ve had a few days to think about everything, I realize that we all were just doing what we do best. Dianne nursed Dad along–keeping him comfortable and the rest of us informed; Mom held down the home front–managing, planning, and making sure that Dad knew that she would be okay. And I talked on the phone a lot and did my best to help with all the difficult decisions. Each of us grieves in our own way. I now know what this truism means. We grieve the way we live, drawing on our strengths and retreating at times to the comfort of the things we know best.

The last time I saw Dad at home, he didn’t join Mom on the front stoop to wave goodbye. Instead he shook my hand from his chair and we exchanged an awkward hug. He should have been able to get up and wave goodbye, I thought, as I drove away. At the corner, I made a quick left turn so I could see the shrubbery that I had trimmed earlier that afternoon.

My wife was the first to notice him, I think, standing at the living-room window, leaning on his walker, and waving. Shrouded behind the glass, obscured in the mid-day reflection of the trees and lawn, there he stood, his soft side fully engaged, waving without being sure that we would even see him. It is my fondest memory of my father, a glimpse that captures most everything about his complicated life–and my place in it.

I grew up hating alcohol. My dad drank, a lot. He was the life of the party, but after a few drinks, he WAS the party. I was embarrassed by his drinking. My friends’ parents didn’t show up to school functions after a few beers. They didn’t always have beer in their fridges. But he went to work everyday, providing a good life for us. He wasn’t an “alcoholic,” but he was a heavy drinker, for sure.

I stayed alcohol-free until college. I was dating a boy who went to another university and we made a promise to stay sober because we “heard” that alcohol could lower inhibitions. That lasted until second semester freshman year. Boy cried, confessed he had been drinking. I went out that weekend and got drunk for the first time on a fruity concoction of Kool-Aid and vodka. Boy and I broke up. The rest of my time at school, I wasn’t really a partier, but I’d drink occasionally.

After graduation, I moved in with my college boyfriend. We threw some major parties – martini samplers, whisky tasters, beer testers. We were super social and it was fun. Then I got a “real” job and responsibilities. I stopped drinking as much. He didn’t.

We were married by this point, first child following a few years later. I drank occasionally, always socially. Husband drank everyday. At first it was a beer or two every night. Then some whisky or hard stuff. I don’t know when it became more to him.

He lost his job, got another one, lost that one. By now, I was an executive with two young kids. He was unemployed. He told me he was sad. I didn’t know the full story until my maternity leave with baby number two: his sadness was really constant intoxication. He hadn’t paid our bills in four months – “forgot” he said. He didn’t even try to find work – “hate it” he said. He was lying about drinking, hiding bottles in the couch cushions and ceiling tiles. “I’m not drinking” he said. He tried AA – “those people have problems” he said. He tried rehab – but was kicked out for showing up drunk.

When my company cut my position after 12 years, I told him the lying and drinking had to stop until one of us found a job. “I’d never do that to you” he promised. That lasted three weeks.

His binge was bad. So bad that I called his parents, begging them to take him back to Indiana. A few days later, he was removed from the house by ambulance, a blood alcohol level five times normal. He was also served with court papers to stay away from me and the kids while I filed for divorce.

I moved on – taking the kids to another state for a good job. He lived with his parents. Five months and four days later, his mom called to tell me he died in his sleep. Cause of death? Liver and heart failure due to severe alcoholism. The coroner actually used big, jargony words, but that’s what it meant.

I’ll never know when or why or how his drinking turned into alcoholism – he’s not around to ask. I still occasionally drink. I think it’s important to show my kids that an adult can drink responsibly. But the things my seven year old has seen, has felt, will have a lasting impact on his perception of alcohol. I’m not sure what’s in store for my kids, but I want to make sure they have an understanding of the power of alcohol and what it can do – but that it’s okay to try, responsibly, with friends.

I’ve been writing about my journey at http://mommyslittleblog.com.

Twenty years ago, when most parents were getting their kids ready to go back to school, I was tending to the burial of my mother, Vera. A few days before, she had slipped into a coma at St. Joseph’s Hospital in London, Ontario after developing an infection from an operation to remove most of her intestines.
It had been Vera’s choice to go to London, after checking herself out of the Toronto Hospital, the place that had been her home for most of the previous year. She was fed up with spending her days attached to an I.V. pole, with doctors doing test after test, and finding nothing. She wasn’t in any pain; she was just tired of being treated like a medical misfit and took a chance on moving to London to stay with my brother, Gary.
The visit was not a long one; before she knew it, she was in excruciating pain and was immediately booked into the OR and sliced open. It took a doctor with a scalpel to locate what all the fancy equipment could not find: the bowel blockage that was killing her.
But it was too late. At eighty-five pounds, she had nothing left and could not fend off the infection.
Too bad, so sad. You won the battle but lost the war.
Syonara, sister.
Vera spent her last summer days in a coma under the watchful eyes of my brother, Gary and his family. I flew from Ottawa only to see her lying in the ICU, snoring peacefully, with no evidence that she was even in the room. The lights were on but nobody was home.
It’s funny what you notice spending time with a dying person.
I noticed her breasts — which I had never seen before — as I self-consciously watched the nurse giving her a sponge bath and I thought they looked pretty good for her age. And her feet, she had really nice feet for a nearly dead person.
In the end, we decided to unplug her.
I didn’t stay. There was nothing for me to do and I had three small kids at home who needed me. And in these final days, I wanted to be in the land of the living instead of in an antiseptic hospital room with a woman who was not there.
So I flew home in a daze, to the arms of my children, and I waited.
Vera died just before the Labor Day weekend, and the family gathered in our hometown of St. Catharines for a three day vigil — due to the long weekend. I’ve never been sadder in my entire life, not even a year later when my husband left me. I couldn’t process my husband’s leaving; I was still in a state of mourning my mother. No one has mattered to me as much as my mother did. When she died, a part of me went dark and I began to exist in a state of emotional collapse.
It was only after her death — and in the midst of my own breakdown — that I finally understood my sweet and complicated mother.
I myself became my mother, emotionally drained, distraught and absent from my children. I stopped answering the telephone and started watching bad daytime television. I couldn’t work. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t sleep.
I exhausted my life’s savings and hired nannies to look after the children during the school year and engaged in destructive behavior when they spent summers with their father. I moved all the furniture out of the family room and spent nearly every Saturday night sitting in a chair by the fireplace, a self-help book in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.
It took maybe three years for me to straighten out, three years to recognize that depression was killing me, as it had ravaged my mother’s life.
I began to recognize my own childhood terror in the eyes of my children and that is when I began to fight for my life.
I remember when I was about 20 and got papercut on my eyeball which left scar tissue that would periodically open up and feel like I’d cut my eye all over again. The pain was excruciating.
My own deep-seated childhood trauma was like that paper cut. When something bad happened, old wounds oozed to the surface. The death of my father. My mother’s mental illness. Abandonment, sadness, neglect…rage.
As a young child, my mother was never really there for me even though she took me everywhere. She was always busy, always distracted and only happy when she was drinking with my cousins.
Basically, she left me to be raised by my grandparents until they died in my early teens.
I never knew my father, so she was my only parent my whole life. She led a terribly sad life. She was bitter and she could be mean, but I dedicated my entire life to making her smile, just a little. One smile was worth a dozen Hallowe’ens, they were so far apart.
As I got older, I became an expert at cleaning up her messes. When I was eight, I held her head over a pan while she puked the best part of a bottle of whiskey after a fight with my uncle. I became her counsellor as a teenager when she off-loaded her pain during marathon drinking sessions. When I got old enough — fifteen if you can believe it — I found it easier just to drink with her. That’s the first time we really started to get along.
Drinking became our common bond, the great leveler. It let us open up; it eased our pain.
It was only through my own good luck and hard work that I was able to break the cycle and move forward. At 18, I went to university and finally left her, once and for all.
I had mixed feelings about this; I didn’t want to leave this woman who was both my rock and my pain. I was afraid something bad would happen to her.
Nothing did, of course. She was able to move on. I think she was relieved to finally be done with the job of mothering me.
But she was a luckless soul and a few years before retirement, she developed chronic back problems which left her a virtual shut-in. Her only solace was the company of a few devoted relatives and her substances. She lived on cigarettes, beer and peanut butter sandwiches and spent most of her days with Giraldo, Oprah and Phil Donahue.
This would all be very sad, if it were not for the fact my mother and I became close again when I had my children. She helped me out with my three young kids and stayed by my side for weeks everytime a new child entered our world. I like to remember those days, because they were our best minutes, hours and days the times when we could for forget the past and move past the pain.
I do have one last searing memory, however, over a snatch of conversation we exchanged a few years before she died. Vera was visiting us in Oakville, when Marissa was just a tiny infant. My husband was off on one of his business trips. We had put the kids to bed and were enjoying her favorite dinner, spaghetti, salads and a bottle of wine.
I was feeling warm towards her and wanted to say something nice, so I congratulated her on her success as a mother.
“You know, you should be proud,” I said. “You have three great, successful and happy kids with wonderful families.”
She looked at my darkly.
“What about me?” she fumed. “What do I have to show for it?”
I didn’t have an answer and I still don’t.
I hope, in the end, as she was trolling along the hospital corridor attached to an IV pole, that she might have reflected on a job well done. I doubt it.
I think, overall, she hated her life. Hated my dad, resented us, mourned a life wasted on us.
I remember her telling me once about how she had left home at 16, got a job and a new mink coat. That was when she was happiest. If there is an afterlife, I hope that’s where she is, having fun, smoking her cigarettes and having a few cocktails.
If she’s not, then I hope there is no afterlife for my mother.
Or for the rest of us for that matter.

i simply don’t know how to start. it’s not even only about drinking, once i drink i become an ill behaved monster. i have decided to stop many times,but a week after i forget, and even if don’t forget, i can’t resist it.
i simply don’t know how to quit… please give me an advice, what is the first step.

I’ve decided to not drink for the month of October. I am 4 days in.

What motivated me to take a break:
1. I am trying to lose weight.
2. Hangovers suck, especially during the week.
3. This is my most stressful time of year. Especially during the week. It would be so easy to just have that glass of wine, but on my drive home from work I going to make the firm commitment to hit the gym.
4. I’m sick of using it as a social crutch. Whether I’m with my family, closest friends, co-workers, or a first date, I’m usually found with drink in hand. I’m enough, right? I guess I’m going to figure that one out.
5. I’m sick of feeling like I’m a punch line, or a thirty-something single girl cliché.

and so it goes,and I stay.Pampered with regrets underneath my skin.
How unpleasant the discomfort of faded lipstick is
in the morning,rolling over, eyeing the empty beer bottles
and wondering where the original kiss mark
is, whose lips did alcohol lie to,and
damn,how did this happen again?
I am a shrine for disaster and disorderly conduct,
guilt, pain, and boiling water- I am falling over late nigjt
failing to feel anything but the need for more.

I lost myself years ago,in a dirty gas station
bathroom mirror..

Sisters (especially Zo):
I am reading some sad stories, but most are also hopeful. Telling the truth is hopeful. Looking for some solidarity is hopeful. I wish I knew how to quit drinking forever (I don’t) but I do see the connection between self-esteem, alcohol, and the lives we really want to live.
I had my first drink at my parents’ party for my father’s colleagues. I drank the dregs of a few dry sherries (age about 13) and knew in my bones that I had found a friend. In a way, you all know the rest. Drank my way through university, drank more as a grad student, drank still more in my profession as professor–but very quietly, very secretly. Somehow, for me, the effects don’t show publicly. Not yet, anyway. A good diet and reasonable exercise probably hide the traces. But the thing is, I basically hate myself. Dear Zo, you are not alone. I send you my best thoughts and wishes. Let’s try it together–cutting down, valuing ourselves, hoping for a better life. What do you say?

After 23 years of heavy drinking, I have finally fallen out of love with wine. I have a new love in my life. His name is sober. I love waking up hangover free after spending my nights with him. With wine, I would always wake up with a pounding head, “cotton-mouth”, a bad attitude and look like hell. I still think about wine, a lot. There are triggers around me that go off all the time making me remember all those nights at swanky jazz bars, lying on white sand beaches and watching Real Housewives together. I do those things with sober now. I can’t erase the memories of wine just like I can’t erase the memories of my first love but, this time around I will actually remember all the details of the time that sober and I spend together. I only met sober after many, many failed attempts to get clean. I wanted to fall in love with sober more than I wanted to stay in love with wine. Wine still crosses my mind everyday but, I just tell myself that I am better off without him.

I hope each and everyone one of you meet your sober one day!!

Hi Sasha,
I’m not sure when you posted your reply, but after a few days of not receiving a response, I stopped checking the site– until now! I really appreciate you reaching out and I hope you frequent the site! I would definitely like some support, as the cat is out of the bag a bit on my end– it just happened over the weekend. I’m not sure how to respond to your comment exclusively, so I”m writing here for the time being. I”ll check in over the next few days to see if you respond. Hope all is well.
Zo

When I get up to pee in the middle of the night, halfway to the bathroom I always ask myself “how many did I have tonight”. If the answer is one, I am very excited that the next day I will not be hungover. If it was two, I’m probably cool. If it was more than two, or some unholy alliance of the grain and the grape (beer and wine), I’m probably screwed, but I don’t feel it yet so I make up lots of illogical, improbable stories about how it won’t happen this time and why (I drank lots of water, the moon phase was beneficial, bla bla bla…).

I do not have a “drinking problem”, though often when I drink, it’s a problem. Not in the thrown-frying-pans kind of way, but in the “fuck, hungover again” kind of way. The conversation I have with me the next day is so repetitive and moronic it would be funny if it wasn’t so dumb.

“Gee, you had more than two and now you are hungover. There’s a surprise” the mocking holier-than-thou voice snipes. “I can’t believe it”. “Oh, you can’t believe it? That’s weird since it HAPPENS EVERY TIME”. This un-witty rep artier goes on endlessly and becomes quite drab. During this exercise I am always reminded of the saying “the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result”. I feel a little smug and self-congratulatory when I reply–to myself–that actually, that saying is dumb because it sounds much more like the definition of stupidity than insanity and then I think for a second that I’m really smart for thinking that, and then I just go back to feeling yucky for having consumed too much alcohol.

Sadly, the only thing that fixes my toxically annoying hangover is more alcohol–hair of the dog. We are not talking about stultifying headaches and vomiting, just general queasiness, tiredness, self-loathing, and empty threats re: quitting. Nor are we talking about the kind of hairy dog that lives in the file cabinet drawer at work–just the beer or wine or cocktail upon arriving home that will make me feel better. That and food. I eat a lot more food when I’m hungover–helps the stomach. Fortunately I am blessed with a fondness for exercise so I don’t blow up like a tick as a result of what I call my “learning disability”.

I’ve decided to make little asterisks on my calendar at work to track my hangover days, in a vain attempt to self-shame myself into curbing my consumption. I haven’t gone so far as to promise myself a reward for an asterisk-free month (a special drink, perhaps? Ha!), but I do feel like I’ve really achieved something when I go more than a week with no little angry stars in the top left corner of my representation of days.

To fully understand my story, I must start at the beginning.
The summer before my freshman year of high school I got drunk for the first time on champagne at my mom and stepdad’s wedding. Classy, right? It was my first experience with alcohol and I loved everything about it. I loved the carefree feeling it gave me. I loved how it made me feel beautiful and funny. And, above all, I loved how it took away all my inhibitions and fears of what others thought of me. That was the beginning of my drinking story.
I went to high school in a small, working class town in Northern California where fun and drinking went hand in hand. Of course, there were kids who didn’t drink, but they were the exception. Do I blame where I grew up on my drinking? No, but I’m not denying it didn’t influence it. A party wasn’t a party without alcohol. My peer group consisted of the jocks and cheerleaders and despite being viewed as “good kids,” we were hard partiers who liked taking risks and lived for the anticipation of the next big party. When I look back on some of the risks I took during those years, honestly, I’m surprised I’m still alive to tell about it.
After high school, I went to a “party” college (surprise, surprise) where the parties were even bigger and better. Alcohol was everywhere and I was in Heaven. As a freshman living in the dorms, my friends and I would walk in groups to frat parties where they would have barrels of “jungle juice” up for grabs. At some point in the early morning hours, I would stumble back to my room and pass out in the bathroom or on the floor of my room with a trash can nearby. Luckily, I had a roommate who was responsible and took it upon herself to take care of me during these times. Needless to say, these were not some of my proudest moments.
Throughout college, my drinking habits mainly consisted of severe binge drinking. I didn’t drink on a daily basis, but when I did I did it with dedication and tenacity. Somehow, throughout all of the partying and hangovers, I was able to keep my grades up and graduate with honors. At this point, I had a degree in English and no clue what I wanted to do with my life. So, like many recent college graduates, I moved home. While I was able to regain my career focus while living at home, I continued to party hard with new and old friends.
In September 2001, I moved to Oregon and started graduate school. Fortunately, my binge drinking took a backseat to studying, however, during this time I discovered wine and loved it. I was in graduate school and wine was classy, elegant and smart – everything I wanted to be. On breaks from studying, my girlfriends and I would get together for dinner parties, trying different varietals of reds and whites, or take day trips to the nearby wineries. Wine became my drink of choice, and so began a long-term love affair that would last for many years.
During my last year of graduate school, I met my future husband, graduated and got the job of my dreams. Life was good and everything was going according as planned. Two years later my husband and I got married and I got another dream job in the city where we lived. During this time, I would have a cocktail here and there or a glass of wine or two a few days a week, but nothing excessive. I was a normal drinker and had, what I considered, a healthy relationship with alcohol.
Nine months after getting married, my life as I knew it would change forever. In the midst of buying and remodeling our dream house, my mom was diagnosed with terminal pancreatic cancer. After much thought and consideration, I decided to resign from my job so I could be with my mom and help take care of her. With the added stress of my mom’s illness and being away from my husband for extended periods of time, my obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD), which had been under control for some time, came back with vengeance. I did my best to “control” it, but it seeped into all areas of our life. You would think I would have turned to alcohol during this time to deal with the stress, but instead I obsessed about anything and everything. I was too busy obsessing to drink.
To add to everything we were going through, I became pregnant with our first child during this time. My mom had dreamed of being a grandmother and I wanted to give her that one gift before she died. She never had the chance to meet my daughter because she died when I was five months pregnant. However, in her last days she was able to feel my daughter kick inside of me and, for that, I will forever be grateful.
After my daughter was born, I felt a joy I had never felt before, yet I also felt an emptiness that would not go away. I had considered being a stay-at-home mom once I had children, however, I felt as though in some ways I had been thrust into my role. Within a year’s time, I had gone from being a confidant, career-minded young bride to a new mom with no career dealing with the grief of losing my own mom. Despite a wonderful husband and beautiful baby girl, I felt a sense of loneliness I had never felt before. I began drinking more regularly during this time to take the “edge off.” However, it wasn’t until my son was born two years later that my drinking would seriously escalate to a new level.
In 2008 when I was six months pregnant with our son, we sold our “dream” house and moved across town to a house that happened to be across the street from my in-laws. Despite having a good relationship with them, it wasn’t my first choice, but I knew it would be a wonderful experience for our daughter and helpful once our son was born.
Our son was born in December 2008 two weeks before Christmas. Despite being a difficult sleeper and having some reflux issues, he was a happy baby. We soon settled into our routine as a family of four, me staying home while my husband went to work. In the beginning, I was content and happy, but after awhile I started to feel the emptiness and loneliness creep in which I had felt before. I started drinking wine on a more regular basis to help me relax and unwind after a long day with the kids. What began as a few days a week gradually turned into five and before I knew it I was having a glass or two every day.
Within a very short amount of time, drinking began to consume my thoughts. I couldn’t wait until the clock hit 4:30 to pour my first glass of wine. While the kids played on the floor or watched cartoons, I would settle into the couch with my laptop and glass of wine by my side. It wasn’t long before 4:30 became 4:00 and 4:00 became 3:30. And, it wasn’t long before two glasses a night became two strong cocktails before my husband got home and three or four glasses of wine throughout the evening. Usually, by 7:30 once my husband had put the kids to bed, I went to bed myself. It wasn’t until much later, I would realize and acknowledge I hadn’t just been going to bed early; I had been going to bed and passing out.
By the time my son was two years old, drinking consumed my life. I didn’t want to go anywhere unless I knew alcohol would be available; all of our social activities centered around drinking; I even insisted on having drinks available at my son and daughter’s birthday parties. My husband would drink, but he could take it or leave it. He didn’t need it like I did…or so I thought I did.
My husband would comment on my drinking and suggest that “we” cut back, but I would brush him off as making a big deal out of nothing. At times, I would say I would cut back but that would usually only last for a couple days at most. It started taking more and more wine to achieve the “buzz” I depended on to make me feel relaxed. If I was hungry, instead of having a snack, I would begin drinking because I could get a faster “buzz” on an empty stomach. I started manipulating the situation to get the results I wanted – classic signs of alcoholism.
I knew I had a problem long before I ever admitted it. I would wake up most mornings with feelings of shame and guilt, promising myself that I would not drink that day. Yet, by the afternoon I would find myself with a glass of wine in my hand. I started having stomach problems, but instead of cutting back or stopping drinking all together, I blamed it on the wine and switched to drinking beer instead – another classic sign of alcoholism. I started going out and binge drinking more; spending the following days comatose on the couch, unable to interact with anyone.
On the outside, I looked like I had it all. I went to church, had a nice home, a wonderful husband and two beautiful children. I took care of myself, going to the gym daily and leading a healthy lifestyle (aside from the drinking). However, despite all of this, I was falling apart on the inside. I blamed my problems on everyone else. I was angry, lonely and empty. I was physically there, but I wasn’t present in my life. I rarely felt joy or happiness; I didn’t laugh like I used to. I was going through the motions, but I wasn’t truly living anymore.
I was falling quickly and it was only a matter of time before I hit bottom. After a series of drinking fueled incidents, I couldn’t take it anymore. I couldn’t take the lying, deceit, guilt and shame I was putting myself and my family through anymore. One night, while reading on the couch, I felt an overwhelming sense of heaviness on my heart that I had never experienced before. I knew without a doubt that once and for all I needed to be honest with my husband about my drinking. Despite going to church, I had never had a close relationship with God, however, I truly believe that God was speaking to me that night and gave me the courage to finally speak my truth.
As we sat across from each other in our living room that night, my husband asked me once and for all if I was willing to give up alcohol for good. I said I would and admitted to him that I needed help and so began my journey in sobriety. And, it is just that, a journey.
I spent the first six months of my sobriety attending Alcoholics Anonymous (AA) meetings and working with a sponsor. And, while I am grateful for all AA has taught me about my disease of alcoholism, it is my relationship with God that is my true strength and inspiration and what I believe will keep me sober in the years to come. When I stopped drinking and welcomed God into my heart for the first time, I experienced a sense of peace and joy that I had never felt before. For years I had been searching for something to fill the emptiness I had felt inside, not realizing that the only thing that could fill that emptiness was my relationship with God.
Getting and staying sober is not easy. I have relapsed twice since first getting sober, but God willing I will never take another drink again. I will never be able to be a “normal” drinker therefore alcohol has no place in my life. Before getting sober, I couldn’t imagine a life without alcohol. Would I have fun anymore? Would my friends want to hang out with me? Well, I’m here to say that life goes on and your old way of living gives way to a new “normal.” Getting sober is not a death sentence; it is a second chance at getting to live the life you have always wanted.
Sobriety is a personal journey. I can only speak from my own experience, but, for me, getting sober gave me the freedom to truly be the person I always strived to be. I can now say with total confidence that I am the best mom, wife, daughter and friend I can be. I have been able to delve into my passion of writing again along with discovering new talents and passions. Previously, when I was angry, stressed or lonely I would drink because it’s what I was familiar with. It was the only way I knew how to “escape.” In sobriety, your problems don’t just go away; you find new ways to deal with them. Instead of pouring a glass of wine, I write or try a new recipe or create something. It’s different for everyone; the key is finding what works for you.
When we go through challenging times or hardships, our first question is always “Why?” “Why me God?” I asked this when I struggled with my OCD, when my mom died of cancer and when I admitted to my alcoholism. The thing is, continuing to ask “Why?” prevents us from moving forward and accepting our circumstances. Because, it is those challenges and hardships that end up making us who we are, which is often a much better version of the person we were before.
I truly believe God brought me to this place in my life so I could share my story with others and put a face on what I refer to as “suburban alcoholism.” I know there are other women out there, who despite having everything on the outside, are struggling with the same loneliness and emptiness I felt on the inside. Perhaps, you’re reading this right now and feeling the same guilt and shame I felt every morning when I woke up after a night of drinking. I am here to tell you there is no shame in admitting to your weaknesses and asking for help. There is no shame in wanting to be a better mom, wife, daughter, sister or friend. Alcoholism is a deadly disease and the longer you wait to get help, the worse it will get. Trust me. I was fortunate to get the help I needed before I lost everything that was important to me. Look in your local phonebook or Google AA meetings in your area. Most AA groups have closed meetings just for women, which provide a safe and comfortable setting. If you don’t feel comfortable going to an AA meeting, reach out to your pastor or clergy at your church. Many churches offer their own recovery groups. The first step is admitting you have a problem and seeking help. From there, things will only continue to get better. I promise.

Hello fellow travelers. I hope the year is starting off well for everyone. Quick update- I joined an out-patient program but have now realized that in-patient is necessary. Because I have no income, my only choices are state-funded programs…I’m sure they are safe, I am only looking at female-only programs, but I’m still weary. Though I have $1.24 to my name, I did come from parents who worked very hard for a middle-class lifestyle and managed to save for emergencies and university education for us children. However, paying upwards of $45k for a 3-month stint at a recovery center is ludicrous and unafforadable to them. Understandably… how are non-uber rich folks suppose to have any chance of real recovery if the recovery resources are purely dependent on such price extremes? I understand it’s ultimately up to the individual’s desire to get on and stay on the recovery path but this is just insane! I really had no idea. And I live in one of the most populated citiese in the US, where one would expect vast resources, as opposed to a smaller town. So the halfway house it might be.. I will room with women who have CPS cases and have been incarcerated.. but for non-violent crimes. So that’s good. right? Better than no help? What would be great is if there is a farm retreat program for addicts, where you basically work the organic farm, share chores, live on the property, all the while getting treatment. For a nominal fee. Like a work program/live/get treatment/co-op for recovery type place. That would be wonderful. I researched it, and they are very few and far between and obscenely expensive. A gal can dream

One more thing… I bought a book by Amy Lee Coy called ‘From Death Do I Part’ and it’s really great. I enjoy gaining knowledge and experience from people across the recovery spectrum. She finds and maintains recovery without the 12-steps, which is controversial I believe. However, she does not preach her style, she is just telling her story and is fully behind people doing what they need to do (12-steps, etc) to help them in their recovery. This non-preachy style works with me and it’s interesting overall…I believe it’s a couple of years old, so some of you might already know about it.
Looking forward (trying to at least),
Zo
Best wishes to you all until next time.

I’m sorry to be a post hog today, but I can’t go back and edit past entries! This is the last one for now, really! I read Jenna’s story on the main page today was totally surprised to read that Julie Cameron was an alcoholic! I read the Artist’s Way last year and really like what she has done for herself and others, and — I”m just surprised partly and somehow got a jolt of inspiration. She’s come a long way… I tried implementing the Morning Pages routine. I only made it 2 weeks, but I might gravitate towards that exercise again.
Okay that’s it good night!
Zo

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.

Growing up I noticed my parents drank–not excessively that I was aware of but they did. Dad came home from work and had a cocktail before dinner, they went out to a party and came home drunk and fought like they meant it, Mom wouldn’t stay home when Dad was out on maneuvers and went out drinking with whoever she could find to join her whether it was acceptable or not. Ultimately, they split and I ended up with my grandparents who had their own issues. Memere had a bottle of VO in the closet “to help her sleep” and Pepere didn’t drink because he used to drink too much and Memere made him stop.

I remember my first drink–cheap wine out of a ridiculously large cheesey bottle in a parked car at the reservoir with my first boyfriend. That was shortly after high school graduation before I left for college in Boston. Pot was not in vogue quite yet.

Ah, Boston–that was a trip! One of my roommates was a “loose woman” from upstate New York–loved her! That’s a whole other storybook! We met another “loose woman” waitressing at a local deli on Com Ave and all hell broke loose! There was this little bar called the What Ho Pub we hung out at and became the place’s “stars.” Next door in the same building was a dance club (it was a “gogo bar” of the ‘60s ‘cause that’s when it was–yes, women actually danced in cages scantily clad). We weren’t old enough but we all had fake ids—mine was a military dependent id that I very carefully and artistically transformed into making me legal (my Dad would’ve turned me in).

Well, to make a story short, we hung out at the What Ho and the gogo club as often as we could–drinking liberally each time because we could always count on men buying our drinks. One night I met a salesman I dated for a while who I found out wore a toupee by running my hand up the back of his neck one night when we were “cuddling” in bed. Another night I met Vinny Dicesio (sp?) who was working for a Mafia Don–intriguing right? For a while. Cute guy who wore his monogram on his dress shirt cuffs and came up behind me at the bar and whispered in my ear (after he had bought me a Rum Collins), “Rum makes you cum.” We dated. My friends dated his friends fearfully. They picked us up at our apartment in limos. We were ushered into clubs to sit at impromptu set up tables in the front after being brought in before people who were in long lines waiting to get in. After the clubs we drank from nips apparently stolen from somewhere and ate veal piccata in after hour clubs followed by clumsy groping I can’t remember where.

OMG–it never occurred to me that this guy, had he really wanted me, could have followed me to DC and created havoc for me and my new boss–a member of the U.S. Senate. Thank you, he didn’t.

Then there was the DC era–got my job on The Hill. The guy who actually sought me out to hire me had had a few beers when he first met me and was impressed–I hadn’t, unfortunately. Got the job and a new version of drinking began. More social, more family-oriented. When you work on The Hill you work hard long hours and your co-workers become family. You go out together after work to bars and drink, you have a martini at lunch occasionally (unless you’re so busy you eat at your desk from the cafeteria), you have gatherings and drink, and in those days–which were very different from these days–your boss got cases of booze as gifts from distillers and brewers and manufacturers which he couldn’t possibly consume on his own so he distributed it among the staff (this is not to mention the shoe manufacturers from our state who sent “samples” to his wife who wore the same size as me and I got her leftovers).

That’s when I started my creative cooking career—inviting colleagues for dinner to sample my creations topped off by cocktails and conversation. That’s when we cruised the bars in Georgetown picking up intriguing foreigners. That’s when, at one Georgetown bar, I was recruited to be a high class hooker–oops–companion–charging $1000 a night. I wonder why I said no! I’d be very well set financially now if I had!!

And then I came back home–why, you ask? Well, there was this guy who had taken my virginity who was once in love with me but married someone else who called to tell me he was divorced and wanted me back. Hard to believe it but I said yes……grrrrr. In addition to overdosing on Dunkin’ Donut eclairs when we were back together, he was an alcoholic and guess who got into that? We married, had 2 kids and drank in addition to smoking weed as a pastime. And who suffered the consequences–not us–the kids. Our relationship was all about drinking, smoking weed and infidelity (on his part). He drank most of the time. I mostly smoked–drank to keep up with him at parties (loved my porcelain goddess bowl). It was nuts. It was crazy. He left me for the bartender at the dive he hung out and gambled at. We divorced. Our son, at the age of 12, was already into drugs. Our daughter was already screwed up but not into drugs yet–she was 3 years younger. The split was screwed up—I drank and slept around—he drank and came to visit the kids but spent the time with me.

We remarried—oh ya, dumb but we did. He had gotten sober and was in AA and I didn’t want to give up–loved him still. After all, he was my first–ya, that guy with the first bottle of wine at the reservoir. That didn’t work and screwed the kids up even more. Our son got worse, our daughter pushed the limits. Finally got divorced again. But that didn’t mean the drinking was over for me. Despite the fact that he was not drinking, he was a dry drunk so our partnership was less than beneficial to me overall. We divorced again–about 5 years later. Not soon enough.

Then it happened. Our son, who had been living away from home after more than one detox experience, reached the end of his line and died of an overdose of heroin. Yes, our bad, very bad, example had influenced our son’s life to the extent that he had ended up killing himself unwittingly with drugs. He was 25. He was sensitive, intelligent, artistic, hated his Dad and loved his Mom. There wasn’t a birthday or Mother’s Day that I didn’t at least get a call from him. Usually he’d show up with his current girlfriend and cooked for me. His mantra, throughout his struggle with addiction and dealing with his hatred of his father was always “everything in moderation, Mom.” Obviously his definition of moderation didn’t do him justice. The last time I saw him and hugged him was shortly after his 25th birthday–he was headed to New York on his way to Georgia to take computer courses from UGA. He was tall and handsome and I loved and wanted him to succeed without drugs so damned much. The next time I heard about him I heard my daughter tell me he was dead–he had died in New York of an overdose of heroin I found out later from the coroner. If only I had done better by him. If only I could start over again. He was my wonder boy–why, oh why, did he have to die? Especially the way he did. What could I have done to save him? It still haunts me today–every day. I know of course. But it was too late.

Meanwhile I had met another loser–oh ya–I hadn’t developed the self-esteem yet to realize this one wasn’t a bad apple too. This one was a hard worker and a pleaser–met him at a wedding. He was 9 years younger than me, which he made clear he knew on our first meeting (red flag ignored). Wasted 20 years on him. He wasn’t a drinker. He was a smoker–a weed smoker. Couldn’t live without it. I was, too, in the beginning. Probably why we were okay together. Ultimately I converted to the almighty Jim Beam–what a wonderful taste and feeling. Weed is illegal. We had a business. My feeling was that we couldn’t threaten the success of our business which I had sunk every cent I had into (none from him). Didn’t seem to bother him that his smoking in the garage could be detected outside of the garage–all his close friends were smokers. It was a constant argument. So I drank my JB and he smoked his weed. Ended up he hated my drinking despite the fact that my smoking weed previously didn’t bother him at all. Drink is legal—weed isn’t. Didn’t matter. Became a huge issue between us. He was never the best in bed (that’s an understatement) but he withheld sex because I didn’t stop drinking because he wanted me to. It snowballed to the point we divorced and had to continue to live together until the business sold. He was the type who wouldn’t go out of his way to be with his own family–his mother, siblings–because they drank. But it was okay that he smoked weed all the time. Just couldn’t see the double standard—we didn’t live up to his standards so we were out of his life. No great loss. Happy to be rid of him.

Now, however, is now. Jim is my man. He’s the one I turn to nightly to unload and relieve the pressure of being a supportive mother, a semi-retired full/part time worker trying to make ends meet, an engaged grandmother, an involved friend, and a woman who can deal with the ups and downs of her life at the age of 65. I am who I am. I find that I chastise myself every night when I wake at 2 or 3 am and toss and turn until I fall back to sleep a couple of hours later. I promise to cut down on my Jim–to not rely on him so much–to drink more water to take his place. That’s a joke. There are nights I only “kiss” him once–others I “kiss” him several times and regret it in the morning–not because of the resulting “hangover” but because of the guilt. We’re not supposed to drink, are we? It’s bad for us. It’s a crutch. It’s devil juice.

But I love my Jim. He makes me smile. He makes me forget the crap in my life. He keeps me straight–you know, away from the losers who may enter my life and cause me to put myself in a position to suffer at the hands of a lover once again. I’m perfectly happy without one of those men–Jim is my man. I love him. He loves me. He makes the negative portions of life tolerable but doesn’t interfere with the positive things in life. He gives me a glow and inspiration to reflect and put on “paper” what he means to me. I must get a t-shirt that expresses my love! All I need now, if I decide it’s so, is a man (or woman) who’ll keep me intimately connected with my Jim. Because I don’t ever see myself giving this man up–he’s the perfect man: he keeps you happy, he doesn’t judge me, he doesn’t criticize me, he makes me mellow, he enhances conversation and introspection, and, if you really think about it, he could enhance your libido. And he doesn’t criticize, order you around, expect more than you’re willing to offer, disappoint you in bed, make you explain or demean you.

What more could you want? Of course he or she must accept and love my Sadie–my little old sweet loving dog–or it ain’t happening’.

Oops! Can’t edit. I won’t insert the paragraph break and missing commas, but the missing words from paragraph two need to be inserted: “I was a woman [drinking with a man], and….”

This is what happens when people drink too much:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bSvteHvh8t0

Today is the first day for the rest of my life, without alcohol. Well, that’s at least what I say right now. I have to quit because I know I will die from an alcohol related accident if I don’t. I’m your bonified binge black out Betty with a pinch of pepper. I’m scared right now. I’m seriously scared that I won’t be able to quit. I’ve tried before and failed. My mother always told me I couldn’t drink because it was in our blood. She’s half native mexican and my father’s part native american. My father is a severe alcoholic and both my grandparents died from alcoholism. It’s a family curse and it runs deep in our beautiful spiralling DNA. It will kill me. I wanted to start writing about it because I think it may help me. Help me to remind myself how dangerous it is. I’m in the medical field, and I do not drink the night before I work… But I have noticed my hangovers are getting longer, my anxiety is worse, my lonliness all encompassing. I want to stop for good. I’m not one for AA, so I must create an outlet and find support from family and friends. I wish I was already three months into it, and I really hope I make it this time.

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. And thank you God for throwing this website on my computer this morning. You always amaze me.

This blog is amazing.i found it after reading the book.By age 25 I was the woman who woke up every morning and said I won’t drink today and by 3:00 after obsessing all day about it I would find a reason to drink.its hard to break a promise to yourself every single day.at age 27 I felt like a 90 year old woman.i was so sick and tired of being sick and tired.I began hiding alcohol but I lived alone.who was I hiding it from.I new I was an alcoholic at such a young age and I would pray to god to relieve me from this deadly obsession.miraculously my prayers were answered. My path was AA.i encourage you to keep trying it.even if you don’t get it it will eventually get you.there is great power in a room full of people who are trying to stop drinking a day at a time.All our stories are different .i think alcoholism is a self diagnosed disease.its not how much you drink.i think it is about the obsession.try stopping at 2 drinks a night for a week.for me it was much easier to not drink than to stop at two.i haven’t had a drink in 28 years and nothing has happened in my life that a drink would have made better.you are not alone and you deserve to be happy joyous and free.