Lucky Charms

Lately when I look at myself in the mirror, all I can see is that I have this big belly that is spilling out the top of my jeans. I have realized since at least December that I would like to do something about it. The only way to conquer it, really, is to abstain from alcohol, specifically beer. In fact, in December I went 3 days without any alcohol, but then I gave in when I was hanging out with my crew during a blizzard, and someone smacked a 12 pack down on the table at the hotel. And I’m okay with that. I’m glad I joined them.

Today is my 7^th day without having gluten or alcohol. On February 22^nd, I slid my “lucky coin” into my pocket, and told myself, “Let’s go. Let’s do this thing.” And I did. Two years ago I didn’t know that I could do that. The thought of not drinking terrified me, and I did not think that I could not partake of alcohol in my own power. I remember saying as much, on a miserable day in December. Saying it out loud was scary. Saying it out loud with a witness was even scarier.

Within a week of that day, I found myself in an AA meeting. I had thought of attending AA (or Al-Anon) several times over the years – I had a morbid curiosity of it. But I also had a fear of it – that is not the type of person I wanted to be, and I imagined a room full of losers. If I was honest with myself, it is the last place I wanted to be. Going in that New Years Eve was terrifying – I was literally shaking from head to toe. An exceptionally good friend (who is to remain anonymous ha ha) went with me. I remember being so wound up I thought I might vomit, and I prayed no one asked my anything. But then a thing happened: as I listened, I heard myself in some of the words – both the words of the people speaking and in the passages they read. I felt some camaraderie and less alone. I found myself going back, and in short order, I fell in love. I fell in love with the people, the stories, the similarities, the laughter, the honesty, the willingness to be introspective. It was like church, in a way, but in a better way - it became my church. Even though we were not the same in age, color, religion, political affiliation or socio-economic status, I had found my people.

I went 7 months without drinking, for the most part. There was a week I took off – we were skiing in Colorado and I had some beers (gluten free!) on that trip, but when we came home, I went back to abstinence. I was learning that it can be like a faucet, and I can indeed turn it off and on. I didn’t regret my choice to drink on that trip, except for the fact I never did get a 6 month chip. It’s okay though – the 90 day chip is turquoise and beautiful and I loved it.

After 7 months, I went back to drinking, with a newfound respect for alcohol and a better understanding of my own relationship with it. While I enjoyed AA, I could not bring myself to call myself an alcoholic, and so I felt like an imposter of sorts. To me, step 1 is admitting you are an alcoholic, and I just could not do it (my exceptional friend points out that what it actually says is that you admit you are powerless over alcohol, not an alcoholic, and my brain says ‘Tomato, tamata’ to him).

I have thought about it like a toggle switch that only has two options – either you are an alcoholic or you are not an alcoholic. I have spent hours and days and months trying to decide if I am one or not, trying on the words when I am alone, having them spit out of my mouth like sawdust. This morning it occurred to me that maybe it could be more of a sliding scale – like introverts and extroverts. I have always been on the line between introvert and extrovert, where Edith is at 110% on the I-E scale. As I have evolved, I would now place myself at the 75% mark (toward extroversion). What if alcoholism were a sliding scale? Where would I be? I think I would be at 60%.

I told one of my pastor friends last week that I could see alcohol in my mind – that it was a real, live thing. He asked what it was like. I told him it is hard to explain - it is like a viny fog that is alive, almost like in a super hero movie or even Scoobie Doo. I finally told him, “It’s like a fog in the streets of the city that’s alive. At first it’s just a haze, I can hardly see it. Maybe it isn’t even there. And then it is there, but I think, it’s not that bad. I can live with this. But then before I know it, I can hardly see. It wraps around me, like tentacles. It suffocates me. It seeps into everything. It becomes everything.” And then later I told him, “It’s a demon.”

I told my therapist (and we have talked about it a lot over the past two years), that it just takes over. At first, you just have a drink someplace where everyone is drinking – an outing. And I tell myself, okay, I am going to drink, but only at functions – and only once a week. I am not going to bring it in the house. But then it is Friday after a long week, and I think, I deserve a drink, so I buy a 6 pack and I bring it home. I say then, just on the weekends. But then, soon, I have a bad Tuesday, and I tell myself, no more than 3 a night. Then I have one at lunch. Then 3 becomes 4 a night. And then it is 6. And then it is 10 am on a Saturday and I am the only one home, and I think, who cares? Does it really matter? And before I know it, it has seeped into every corner of my being, and I start scheduling my life around it – where it will be or will not be. In short order, it makes me its slave.

When I stopped this week, this time, to lose weight, I was told by many people that I am overreacting and that I am beautiful the way I am. I am not obese, by any means. I am between a size 6 and 8; after 6 months of not drinking I was a sub-4. What they do not understand is (and I do not generally tell them) that it is not just what it does to my outside, it is what it does to my inside.

In the past two years there have been several sections of time that I refrained from alcohol use. It is interesting looking back – I mostly do not regret when I did or did not drink. But there are a few situations of both extremes that I regret. I regret times when I did not drink? Yes. One in particular is when a friend came down to Texas to visit that I had not seen in 20 years, and I think she expected us to have a drink, and I did not. I wish I had. That might be the only time I regret. There are only a few times I really regret drinking, too – there are just a few isolated incidences. It is more the big picture than the details.

My therapist doesn’t think I am an alcoholic, because I’m hyper aware of what it does to me and I know when it’s time to stop. I also go slow and steady when I drink – a beer an hour. I don’t run off to Mexico and go to donkey shows or drink and drive. I do my chores and go to work and do the things I am supposed to do. But he also cautions about the sign that hangs on the AA hall wall, just over the righthand exit door that reads, “Not Yet.”

This is a subject that is taboo. This is a subject that makes others uncomfortable to talk about. I am not “supposed to” talk about it. I certainly should not publish it under my name. Some people worry that if I share it, it will hurt my business. But I find when I share my story with my friends, many of them identify strongly with it. One friend said she had the same issue with both wine and sweets. It is not just alcohol. It is addiction, which comes in many forms.

I am certain I will not go for forever without alcohol. I know I am just on another pause. But the pause feels good – like a demon’s claws lost his grasp on me. There is some mourning that goes with it too - and drinking dreams, night sweats, digestive changes and sugar cravings. I am currently working my way through a pack of Sweet Tarts Ropes.

One thing I struggle with is attending meetings when I know I am not doing this for forever. Can you say, “Hi, I’m Ami, and I’m 60% alcoholic”? The Blue Book would call it a heavy drinker. The Blue Book has a lot of wisdom in it. It feels a mockery to attend meetings when you are not 100% on board. Not 100% on board at all. I probably put way more thought into it than anyone else does about my being there or not being there. Sometimes I miss my people.