I come from a long line of alcoholics. When I was a kid, I swore I would never drink — mostly to hold something against the adults who were constantly assuring me that drinking to excess was a fine adult hobby but also because I saw exactly how those adults had personalities that morphed. Some of them became more loving and more expressive, but some — particularly some in very immediate proximity to Little Bix — became angry and hostile, frequently violent. Both of these extremes were scary. In some book or another, I had read the phrase In Vino Veritas, with the explanation that a drunk person will say the thing that they only think sober. So many of those truths came out, so many that were terrifying and scarring.
I still have an unreasonable aversion to beer breath to this day. It was a warning sign, often the first notice that things were about to get out of control. I learned to disappear, even if I was still in the room, shrink down and go hollow and quiet, their laughs echoing inside my skull.
I can’t even begin to imagine how many parties I “escaped” from by inventing stories with my Fisher-Price Little People. It was self-contained fun — I often tucked myself somewhere visibly blocked from the people drinking, maybe behind a recliner in the corner. If their gaze rested on me, if I drew attention to myself, it was rarely positive, but if I could just weather the hours, outlast them, things would be fine. Eventually we would end up home, through some divine intervention almost always guided by a drunk driver and yet, the car accidents were never while I was in the car.
I’ve never been an extreme drinker. I enjoy wine. I appreciate a cocktail. I love Malibu and Diet Coke like I’m fifteen and sneaking drinks behind the lifeguard shack. I like that feeling of light, almost giddiness that you get, the warm flush sip of bourbon on a cold day, the quenchy tang of an ice cold sauvignon blanc under the stars on a warm evening. The fact that there are vodka ice pops now delights me.
And here’s the thing — while I enjoy all of the fun social coolness of drinking, I don’t enjoy any of the after effects. Most alcohol makes my rosacea flair up like crazy for days afterward (likely due to my insulin resistance/PCOS and the blood sugar spike that comes from drinking alcohol. My rosacea also flairs when I eat too many carbs). I also feel like I’ve been hit by a truck the next day even if I drink in moderation. I rarely drink more than two drinks in a single day anymore for that reason, and then I have to ask myself — if it’s not enough to actually get tipsy and I don’t want the calories and the carbs, why not just drink water or diet soda?
In December and January, I was plagued by persistent migraines. We had chalked it up to stress since I was deep in the study for my comprehensive exams, but I had already slowed way down on my alcohol consumption at that point because I didn’t want to do anything that might tip a partial headache into a real honest debilitating one. In February, I finished my comps but I decided to just not drink, but I didn’t tell Esteban because I didn’t want him to feel like I was becoming a Carry Nation or judging his post-dinner dram of scotch. If he asked, I mentioned my concerns about my health and the headaches and it wasn’t, like, a thing.
Some friends I really respect and adore have for various reasons stopped drinking alcohol completely. Typically when I’m out with them, I try to show solidarity to their choices and opt for non-alcoholic beverages — not making it a big thing but also, it’s a relief. You start to notice a little bit of how much alcohol consumption really is so that you’re showing companionship to the person or people you’re with rather than actually desiring alcohol. (“I’ll have one if you’re having one” is a strange social contract when you think about it — why should you need someone to drink with? Is it to make it okay? Why can’t it just be okay by itself?)
I would be lying if I said that part of my reluctance to drink is the near absolute assumption that alcoholism is hereditary. I know damned well that I have an addictive personality — one look at my purse collection or even my eye shadow palette trove will confirm any doubt in that arena. But also maybe I never put a stake in the ground and declared that I wasn’t going to drink for awhile because I was afraid that I had been kidding myself about my reliance on alcohol from the start?
So I just decided to make it real and see how long I could go without any alcohol. Saturday, March 7th was the last social occasion I attended before we decided to stop leaving the house and exposing ourselves to potential viral infection. I was already thinking about reducing our wine cellar in preparation to move back to Wisconsin, so I had brought a few bottles of wine and my bestie Marycourtney — who used to be a wine rep and has exquisite taste and an amazing wine cellar — had brought a few bottles as well. I was driving both of us to the event, so I had roughly a single glass over a period of five hours, mostly just half ounce and one ounce pours when a new bottle was opened for a taste. And I reliably felt like shit the next day despite being so judicious about the amounts, which pretty much cemented my resolve to abstain going forward.
I guess I’m pleased that I haven’t really cared one way or the other, so any niggling worry that I had about a hidden alcohol reliance is absolutely gone. But also, we’re not socializing because of All This, so it was an incredibly easy thing for me to put aside. It feels a little like a cheat, like someone giving up peanut butter for Lent when they were already allergic to peanuts. I mean, I loathe the taste of beer and even the spirits that I do drink are things that I can tolerate rather than find actually delicious. I had to teach myself to appreciate wine, for instance.
But maybe in this weird time, it’s not bad to reacquaint yourself to the things you are in denial about. It’s one of the worst life hacks that no one can lie to you better than you can.
