This story has been banging around in my head for a while, as I wasn’t sure I could, or should, write it. But, every now and then, the hope that something I share will help someone who is similarly struggling, or at least make them think, trumps any potential discomfort that might result, for me.
As it stands, I’ve already revealed much about my life and what makes me, “me.” The picture isn’t always a pretty one. In fact, on several occasions, my stories have been the literary equal of Edvard Munch’s “The Scream.”
No, not pretty. Unless “pretty scary” counts. But, thus far, you’ve hung in there with me, and I am appreciative beyond measure.
Alcohol and my rather unstable relationship with it have been the topic of several of my articles, as it is an essential component of my make-up. That may sound strange so allow me to explain: I come from a family of committed imbibers. My parents, “gone” for six years now, and many of my aunts and uncles, also gone, along with their friends, drank with gusto. Every single day, to the best of my recall. That’s how it was, “back then.”
Booze and cigarettes. I can’t tell you how many family photos I have depicting the “womenfolk” with a cocktail in one hand and a fag in the other. I’m struck now by the reality that the backdrop of my “formative years” was a hedonistic one. Drinking. Partying. Fighting. Lots of fighting.
I inherited the boozer gene and have nurtured it like a mother tiger for as long as I can remember. And, although not religious, through it all, I have gained a certain spirituality. A direct result of my having the good fortune to survive some hairy episodes that otherwise would have killed me.
There comes a time, though, when we need to stop blaming our genes for our transgressions. Yes, my parents were alcoholics, albeit functioning. Yes, I experienced much trauma throughout my childhood that screwed me up in ways I find hard to articulate, but does this have to define me? No. Or, I hope not. As you can see, I’m grappling with this.
So, I’m somewhat selfishly writing this to shed a high beam on why I continue to engage in behavior that is injurious to my well-being. Or, might be.
See? I waffle even here. I’d better get to it, then. Stick around. We all might learn something.
Questions and Answers for Me and Maybe, You, Too:
Q. So Sherry, why do you drink?
A. I drink because I think it will help me relax. I drink as a reward at the end of a stressful day, and lately, they’re all stressful. I drink because I’ve been a drinker all my life and don’t know any other way to be.
Q. Does it indeed relax you?
A. Not really. For a time, perhaps. An hour, maybe two, but I rarely relax, ever. Perhaps I should say that drinking helps distract me.
Q. From?
A. From worrying about this fucked-up life of ours. And about my husband’s health and my own. From thinking about our mortality and the sobering thought (now there’s an oxymoron) that we’d better damn well outlive our cats. I worry that I’ll never sell a script or realize my dream. I worry about much that is out of my control and that, in and of itself, worries me.
Q. Something tells me there’s another reason you drink. It’s not all about “relaxation,” is it?
A. It is primarily, but I find that alcohol is, in a sense, seductive, in that it holds a rather dangerous appeal.
Q. So you’re attracted to danger?
A. No. Maybe. You’re tripping me up, here. I mean, throughout literary history, booze and writers just work together, you know? It’s a symbiotic relationship. Like PB&J. I even wrote about it, don’t you remember?
Q. Yeah, yeah. Sure. So, how long have you been a user of alcohol?
A. Forever. And I don’t like the word “use.” I drink alcohol. I don’t “use” it.
Q. How much do you drink?
A. I can drink several glasses of wine without thinking about it. There’s less in a bottle than one might think. Years ago, I would have a vodka or gin cocktail, m maybe two, followed by wine. I was made of tougher stuff, back then.
Q. You don’t use a “standard pour,” do you?
A. What’s that?
Q. You’ve written about your parents frequently. Do you blame them for your drinking?
A. No. Yes. Sometimes. I blame them for the unforgettable “vignettes” that I should never have been privy to but was. As was my brother, with whom I no longer speak. My sister, ten years younger, escaped the brunt of it. But, my parents had their own demons and coped the only way they knew how. Regardless, I’m an adult and am responsible for my own life. After a certain juncture, “blame” is for wusses.
Q. Does your sister drink?
A. She can throw down at a party, but that’s it. On a daily basis, she can take it or leave it. Mostly the latter. We’re total opposites in that regard. And she worries about me. Worries that I’m becoming too much like our mother.
Q. Does your brother drink?
A. Yep. I have a feeling he goes at it pretty well as we are bonded in our shared memories. But, again, my sister and I haven’t spoken to him in six years so I can only make assumptions about the state of his psyche.
Q. How about your husband? Is he a drinker, as well?
A. Yes, but he understands the meaning of “moderation,” which is what I aspire to be. A moderate drinker.
Q. Has your drinking affected your relationship with him?
A. There have been times…yes. Like my late father, I can get very mean, very quickly. To my everlasting shame and regret.
Q. Do you like the taste of alcohol?
A. Wine, my primary libation, not really. I mean, it tastes like sour grapes, right? What I do love: The crisp, salty tang of a perfect dirty martini. I could drink those all night.
Q. Are you a daily drinker?
A. Yes, unless I’ve had a “stumbling block,” and then I hop on the wagon for a few days.
Q. And then you return to alcohol?
A. Yeah, because after a few days without drinking, I start to feel really good, and thus confident that I can keep it under control. The “I got this!” syndrome.
Q. How’s that working for you?
A. Don’t ask.
Q. Don’t be flip. Again, does moderation work for you?
A. I believe it could if I worked harder at it.
Q. Then why don’t you?
A. I like to drink. It’s hard to say why. Also, I find comfort in “quantity.” Even if I don’t drink it, I like to know it’s there.
Q. Do you know that you’re contradicting yourself?
A. Yes, I am by definition a “contradiction.”
Q. Have you experienced hangovers? Been sick?
A. Yes, hasn’t everyone who drinks?
Q. How do they make you feel?
A. Horrible. Sick. Like a loser. Especially when I can’t function with all cylinders firing, as a result. And that feeling has resulted in my pushing myself to extreme behavior, like working out, through even the worst “morning after.” Masochism at its finest.
Q. How about blackouts? Are you familiar with them?
A. Yes. Intimately. Not a total blackout, as I experienced during my hardest partying days, but there are nights when I’ve forgotten what I ate for dinner the night before, or even if I had dinner. Or, totally blanked out on a movie my husband and I watched.
Q. You understand that’s a problem, correct?
A. Yes and no. “Forgetting” could also be age-related, no? Although, I’m loathed to think that. In fact, scratch what I just wrote. I’m nowhere near wandering into flake-out territory, yet. So, perhaps it is a problem, or indicative of one.
Q. Have you sought professional help for your affinity for alcohol?
A. Thank you for not using the word, “addiction.” No. I have not as I’ve always preferred to handle such issues on my own. Much like with OCD. I refuse to take a pill, or pills, that will hobble me with an entirely new set of problems.
Q. Do you realize that what you just said sounds like “avoidance?”
A. To some people, perhaps, but for me, that’s just the way I roll. It’s not that I haven’t given seeking outside help any thought, as I have. But, I’m leery of it, as I am marriage counseling. Maybe, this, too, is fallout from my upbringing as my parents weren’t into finding help of any kind. And they sure as hell needed it. Enough about my parents.
Q. Here comes a biggie — have you ever hurt yourself when under the influence?
A. How much time do you have? Sorry. That was lame. Maybe, because I’m embarrassed to admit that yes, I’ve had some unfortunate run-ins with various pieces of furniture in our home, along with the occasional spill. An explained bump on my head, bruises on my legs…yes, I’ve hurt myself. And, although I’m not religious in the slightest, a recent incident has indicated that something or someone may be looking out for me. As it/they did in the two near-death incidents in my old Subaru. Mid-day, no alcohol involved.
Q. Do you care to elaborate on this latest “adventure?”
A. Not really, but I will. I woke up in the middle of the night, thirsty. Apparently, the plain old water on the table next to my bed wasn’t good enough. I wanted the special flavored water that I stock in the laundry room that abuts our finished basement. As in down a flight of stairs. Twelve, fairly steep stairs. You know the punchline, I’m sure. I don’t remember much, but I fell. I can’t tell you how far, or if I missed a couple of steps, or what. I do remember taking the brunt of the impact on my cheek and hip. The landing was a shock to my system. In more ways than one. Other than a sore jaw and hip, a bleeding lip, and a bruise on my knee, I escaped relatively unscathed. But I know that I’m lucky to be alive. I know that fall could have killed me. I believe my walking away was a miracle of a sort. I’m not necessarily attributing this to alcohol, although I did drink wine earlier in the evening…but with that said, it’s obvious that I wasn’t thinking clearly. I will never do that again.
Q. Never?
A. Never. Because I’ve learned my lesson. Again.
