This month marks the fifth anniversary of the last time I had an alcoholic beverage. I’ll try to write another post celebrating that on the actual date – this one goes back more than a bit further to explore why I enjoyed the poison so much – or at least why I once employed it so much.
One of the key factors in what helped me to quit cold-turkey, and without any sort of withdrawal, was the realization that I had been drinking to ease and mask and address my social anxiety. On some level I understood that I’d been doing that for my entire adult life, but five years ago I managed to make that connection on a level that finally broke the alcoholic spell I was under. Once that happened, stopping was a breeze – and I realize that’s not the case for most drinkers who are unable to stop.
Somehow, I managed to get through the reading, the entire time feeling like I was dying inside, and it didn’t make me stronger. It only freaked me out further, setting a cycle of terror in motion, one that my own mother didn’t seem to want to stop.
More than a few years later, a similar event happened, because getting hurt seems to be a family tradition for me. We were at a funeral for another family member, and once again someone asked my Mom if I would do a reading – and once again she said I would. I think then she said I could say no if I wanted but I would have tell them I didn’t want to do it. At that vulnerable moment, I think that hurt more than the fact that she didn’t even see how it might be difficult for me.
That morning was different, however, as I had a secret weapon – a bottle of orange juice and vodka, which I downed in the bathroom of our hotel room before we left for the funeral. In a haze of drunken confidence I sailed through the reading, and unlocked a key to getting through any moment of social anxiety: alcohol. It also set up a dangerous precedent of drinking to deal with family events – especially when it was becoming clear that I couldn’t always count on my family to protect me or, worse, when family were the people who ended up harming me. More on that as we delve deeper into fall, because no one said this was going to be an easy, breezy season; it’s a necessary one, and this reconciliatory reckoning is long overdue.
Social anxiety, the feeling of being unprotected by my family at key moments, and the crutch of alcohol would prove a triple threat – and a consistent motif through the years. Looking back, I did a lot of my drinking during family gatherings and events, and I’m just beginning to see how the pieces of that puzzle fit together. It’s not a blame game, it’s an explanation destination, and I’m the only one who put the bottle to my lips.
