Drinking Diaries » buzz

The Family That Drinks Together

guest — Sat, 26 Sep 2009 20:40:15 +0000

By Sara Eckel

A few years ago, I went to an artists’ colony in upstate New York. I was excited to spend August working on my novel in the lush countryside and looked forward to quick day trips to a nearby swimming hole and to long summer nights chatting and drinking beer by the bonfire. But at dinner that first night, one of the residents complained about her awful stay at a nearby residency. “It was a cocktail party,” she said. The others quickly agreed that that was not what they were into.

Rats.

I had every intention of working hard on my book, but I didn’t see how that precluded having a little fun. This was an artists’ colony, not a convent. And anyway, aren’t artists supposed to be deviants and derelicts? Isn’t being a screw-up kind of the point?

These ladies—and they were all ladies—were true to their word. They were no fun at all. As I went to bed at 9 p.m., with a glass of wine and a book, I started looking forward to Labor Day, when my family and two others would meet up in Lake George. It was a decades-old tradition, spending the last weekend of summer at Julie’s beautiful house on the lake. Days were spent lounging on the dock and bobbing in big black inner tubes, cold beer in hand. Evenings were spent playing cards and petty gambling games. And drinking—lots and lots of drinking. One lonely night in my studio, I found myself thinking, “I can’t wait to see my parents. Then I can party.”

That stopped me cold. Parents? Party? Wow, I was having a bad time.

Since then, I have accepted the slightly unsettling truth: My parents are fun. Not only that, they are oftentimes more fun than my peers. My friends in New York City are delightful, nothing like the dour artist-colony ladies, but I have noticed a disturbing trend in my social circles: People are drinking less. No one has quit drinking all together, but I’ve noticed an uptick in the number of times a dinner companion says “just water for me” or requests a Diet Coke instead of that second Pinot Grigio.

Normally, I would chalk this up to maturity. My friends have grown up, and maybe I should too. Age and sobriety are inextricably linked, right? Then I visit my 64-year-old parents, and I’m offered glass after glass of wine. Actually, I’m not even offered. My father simply refills my glass each time the bottom threatens to make itself visible. When the bottle is kicked, he asks if anyone would be interested in a Scotch.

When I’m with my friends, I often feel like a lush when I order third beer. When I’m with my parents, I vigilantly space my drinks with water, and frequently put my hand over my glass. What’s going on?

My family’s cavalier attitude toward alcohol is a definitely a product of good luck— none of us have suffered any grave consequences as a result of drinking. When I was growing up, Dad never started yelling after his second Manhattan, and Mom never fixed herself a tearful vodka tonic in the middle of the afternoon. I can only recall a few times in my life that I’ve seen my parents visibly drunk—usually at weddings or Christmas Eves, in the midst of having a wonderful time. For my very, very fortunate family, the most severe repercussions of having one too many are hangovers and mild embarrassment.

So, yes, we appreciate a good buzz-on. And sure we love the taste—I enjoy identifying blackberry mixed with cedar on the side of my tongue or what-the-hell-ever. But I don’t think this is what our drinking is about. Whether I’m sitting on my parents’ back porch or barbecuing on our building’s roof deck with my boyfriend, I will contend that kicking back with a cold white and good company is one of life’s greatest pleasures. The fact that I don’t want to stop at one glass has less to do with my need for an altered state than it does the simple fact that I don’t want the evening to end.

But couldn’t I keep rocking on with herbal tea and sparkling water? In theory, yes, but somehow it doesn’t work like that. I’ve noticed that people who stop at one glass of wine are also the first to look at their watch at 10 p.m. on a Saturday night and state that they’ve got an early day tomorrow.

This, I think, is partly a hazard of living in New York City. Contrary to its never-sleeps reputation, I have found that my very ambitious crowd of novelists, journalists and filmmakers are pretty vigilant about getting their seven hours.

My parents and their friends, by contrast, are not striving for any top 40 under 40 lists, nor do they have small children to care for (though in my completely unscientific study I have not found a relationship between the existence of offspring and the desire for another round). Age has, in a sense, freed my parents from worrying about the future. As my dad says as he uncorks yet another bottle, “What am I waiting for?”

Last winter, my parents and two other couples took a trip to China. After showing me the pictures of the locals he met in an open-air market (while blowing off the silk-rug factory tour), he proudly informed me how he smuggled beer onto their coach bus. “We were the party bus,” he said.

When I am 64, I certainly hope that my beloved will continue to need and feed me. But mostly, I hope we’ll be on the party bus.

Sara Eckel’s short fiction has been published in Speakeasy and Sanskrit, and her essays and reported pieces have appeared in The New York Times, Salon, Nerve, Glamour and the Village Voice. She has just completed her first novel.

On Rejecting Addiction & Drama

guest — Mon, 20 Jul 2009 17:25:40 +0000

By Therese Borchard

It’s been 20 years since I used vodka like aspirin—to numb my pain. In fact, I’ve been sober 17 years more than I drank, since I quit before I was old enough to buy the stuff. So my brain should be used to ordering Perrier with lime and shaking my head politely as the merlot bottle comes my way. I should be so used to drinking non-alcoholic beverages at cocktail hours that I don’t give alcohol a second thought.

But the truth is that ex-drunks need to stay in recovery their whole lives. Like cancer survivors, they live in a state of remission, where they humbly acknowledge that their illness is impatiently waiting for a moment of vulnerability to make a surprise visit.

And that surprise visit may not even involve alcohol.

The face of addiction morphs into different beasts. Mine does so with the election of every new U.S. president. Just when I think I’ve learned how to fill my jiggly center with prayer and meditation, with the love of my family and friends, I get that undeniable ache and reach once more for something to “complete me,” as Jerry Maguire would say.

Addicts do that.

Why?

Craig Nakken, author of “The Addictive Personality” explains:

“Addiction is a process of buying into false and empty promises: the false promise of relief, the false promise of emotional security, the false sense of fulfillment, and the false sense of intimacy with the world….Like any other major illness, addiction is an experience that changes people in permanent ways. That is why it’s so important that people in recovery attend Twelve Step and other self-help meetings on a regular basis; the addictive logic remains deep inside of them and looks for an opportunity to reassert itself in the same or in a different form.”

That means that even though I only drank for three years, I will forever have a “thinking problem” that, if I’m not careful, could dump a bunch of unwanted pain unto my lap. It means that as I form important relationships, that I need always remember my propensity to mix up intensity with intimacy—that the rush I feel from scoring 100 followers on Twitter can in no way replace the intimacy I share with my husband and kids—that even though it feels like a high profile career can provide a world of glitter that won’t bore or disappoint me, that any accolade that I win is going to be a fleeting and unreliable high, and should not be depended on.

Intensity is not the same thing as intimacy.

Nakken repeats that logic several times in his book. “The addict has an intense experience and believes it is a moment of intimacy,” he writes.

It’s only been in the last two years of my recovery from, well, just about everything, that I’ve come to appreciate that mistake. I suppose part of my brain is programmed to pursue the thrill, no matter how many people I hurt (myself included) to get it. I chase the adrenaline rush, the dopamine high, that is akin to the buzz I get from smoking an entire cigarette in three puffs after staying away from lung rockets for a year or more. It treats my bruised insides the same way Kids’ Tylenol does my son’s leg cramps. The addictive object dulls the blunt emotions with which I experience most of life.

I crave drama, even as I know it’s not good for me. And I create turmoil although I recognize that it obstructs the serenity I’m after.

Last week a friend sent me a piece called “Dispelling Drama” that she found on DailyOm. I recognized the wisdom in this paragraph:

“Drama, however, disastrous, can be exciting and stimulating. But the trill of pandemonium eventually begins to frustrate the soul and rain the energy of all who embrace it. To halt this process, we must understand the root of our drama addiction, be aware of our reactions, and be willing to accept that a serene, joyful life need not be a boring one.”

How do we treat addiction and break the cycle of madness so that we’re not mired in drama our entire lives?

Recognizing it, for starters. I’ve begun to do that countless times a day when my mind turns to numbing agents—persons, places, and things that inspire intensity of thought or emotion, that physiologically give me that dopamine boost for a minute just as my shot of vodka would or a long inhale of weed or an extra long puff on a Marlboro.

“Self,” I will say some days, “Let’s take this thought a step further… Imagine you get your thrill … there you are … your body getting the buzz … now sit there a second longer … and ask yourself … are you happy? No, I didn’t think so.”

I will remind myself that I have everything I need to be happy.

Sometimes I will jot down my priorities again. For like the 349^th time, just so my brain can make that connection between thought and pad and pen. “Did Oprah make the top ten this time? Didn’t think so.” And so on and so forth.

And I heed the advice on DailyOm:

“When you confront your emotional response to drama and the purpose it serves in your life, you can reject it. Each time you consciously chose not to take part in dramatic situations or associate with dramatic people, you create space in your inner being that is filled with a calm and tranquil stillness and becomes an asset in your quest to lead a more centered life.”

I reject it over and over again. Sometimes it’s merlot. But often it’s not. It just feels like the same to me.

Therese J. Borchard is the author of the hit daily blog “Beyond Blue” on Beliefnet.com, which is featured regularly on The Huffington Post and was voted by PsychCentral.com as one of the top 10 depression blogs, and she moderates the popular depression support group, Beyond Blue, on Beliefnet’s social networking site. Her memoir, Beyond Blue: Surviving Depression & Anxiety and Making the Most of Bad Genes, will be released in January of 2010. Therese lives with her husband and two children in Annapolis, Maryland. Subscribe to Beyond Blue here or visit her at www.ThereseBorchard.com.