The Other “D” Word
I’ve had this one in the can for awhile. This seemed like an appropriate time for it to drop, as you’ve been quickly brought up to speed on the first 30 years or so of my evolution here and here.
Debt, Divorce and Drinking. The Triple Crown! I had my first alcoholic drink in New Jersey at around age 13. It was from a bottle of Southern Comfort my friend swiped from his folks. We drank from it in a tiny little fort we built from materials scavenged from construction sites into the side of a hill on the edge of a woods in an empty lot across the street from my house. You might wonder how or why I had any interest in continuing to drink after tasting that godawful swill. Good question. I guess I was committed to escaping. Or looking cool. Or something! Blech.
Venice Beach, California | January 2019
This wasn’t my first experience with a mind-altering substance. That would be the marijuana I smoked a half dozen times with a buddy in sixth grade in Madison. I made the “mistake” of telling another friend, who (thankfully) told his mother. I ended up attending three high schools. Half of freshman year was spent in Randolph, NJ, where I also attended seventh and eighth grade and where said SoCo was imbibed. Second half of freshman year found me in East Greenwich, Rhode Island, one of only four new kids in an insular school of around 500. It was hell. As an insecure preppy fashion plate wannabe who had the “But-I-was-popular-at-my-last-school” chip on his shoulder, I made little headway in a sea of kids dedicated to wearing jeans and work boots. I did manage to make “friends” with a handful stoners. That summer, I attended Brown Summer High School in Providence. On the 5th of July, after taking several shots of Jack Daniels at a party the night before, I was wicked (a favorite local colloquialism) hungover. I bought and slammed a large glass of cold milk in the cafeteria before class. What? It seemed like a good idea at the time. Turned out I actually rented the milk for all of about 45 seconds. Unfortunately for the custodial staff, I didn’t make it to the bathroom. My apologies to whomever had to clean that up.
Later that summer we moved to Clearwater, Florida where, mercifully, we remained until graduation. And where fewer people objected to my double popped collars. Remember the movie Fast Times at Ridgemont High? This was only a mild exaggeration of my high school experience. By junior year just about everything revolved around parties and drinking. We didn’t smoke much weed and I never saw any hard drugs, but boy did we drink! Busch beer was typically around six bucks a case. Since I had a job and was a snob, I bought Heineken and Moosehead. Some nights, we would buy a couple cases of beer and drive around in my mother’s nine passenger Chevy Chase-Vacation-style station wagon. There were regularly crazy parties with 50 or more people piled into four bedroom houses. It truly was a miracle that nobody died.
I attended the University of Wisconsin-Madison, not exactly known as a bastion of sobriety, especially in the late 80’s. In fact, I’m pretty sure it was top five on Playboy magazine’s list of party schools. I know the library where I “studied” was named the number one pick-up joint my freshman year. I was in a fraternity. Hell, I was the social chairman for the house during one of the semesters that I wasn’t even enrolled in college. I think we went through a record 150 half barrels. I finally moved out of the house after three semesters. Fortunately, there was some small sliver of self-protection buried deep inside of me
When I was a product manager for Kodak, I was on the team working with the NBA. I distinctly remember being in the NBA box watching a Knicks game at Madison Square Garden with David Schreff, who was President of the NBA at that time, and being amazed that he didn’t drink. How crazy was that?
I had my last alcoholic drink nearly 20 years ago. I don’t remember the exact date. I do remember my first born daughter was around a year old and I was struggling mightily with a rapidly growing business, deepening depression and a marriage that wasn’t working particularly well for either of us. After a couple of years of therapy, I finally “gave in” and decided to take an antidepressant – Zoloft. At some level, I knew my drinking was a problem. It wasn’t out of control, but it was definitely in the driver’s seat and looking to exceed the speed limit on a regular basis. Having a single drink was difficult; more often than not it became two or three. I was feeling the effects of a couple drinks several days later – groggy, sluggish and irritable. (Much later I realized I am gluten intolerant, which explains why I felt particularly shitty after a couple beers.) I was determined to be the best father I could be for my daughter and I knew having to claw through the fog of a hangover on a Sunday morning clearly wasn’t the way to do it.
Starting on an antidepressant seemed an opportune time to quit drinking. Why on earth would I spend all this money and time on therapy and drugs to not be depressed and then consume a known “depressant” on regular basis? Didn’t make much sense. So I quit.
After the Rain, River Forest | June 2018
In retrospect, it really wasn’t that difficult, especially as I wasn’t physically dependent. For me, it was a choice. Amy, my wife at the time was a little wary, yet supportive. After all, drinking alcohol is tighten woven into our society. Social functions were a little fraught at first. Because we are such egocentric beings, I assumed EVERYBODY would know I didn’t drink and think I was strange. And wouldn’t that be TERRIBLE? After a couple of gatherings where I was repeatedly asked if I wanted a drink by the same people after politely declining and explaining that I gave it up, I realized nobody is really paying as much attention to me as I thought they were. Huh. How about that?
While I attended a couple of Al-Anon meetings in an effort to better cope with the effects of my parents’ alcoholism, I never was called to attend AA. I’ve had a harder time quitting chocolate (and debt) than I did drinking. And for that I’m grateful.
I’m fortunate that I am a social person by nature. I’ve moved so many times in my life (11 before age 15) that meeting and chatting with new people is second nature. I don’t frequent bars or many events with alcohol. When I do, I find it really interesting to watch how some people go from fairly quiet and reserved to loose, lubricated and loquacious after a couple drinks. Why can’t we all be like this all the time? Why the barrier? What is the barrier? Why is it OK to be this way when drinking but not when sober? Where does this fear originate? This is complicated but I think it is partly because we have been socialized in many ways to fear actually feeling our feelings – good or bad.
As an aside, I have to say, this whole “sober curious” trend that was gaining some traction pre-COVID gets my hackles up. On the one hand, I’m all for people socializing without the crutch of alcohol. On the other hand, the language is a problem (and our reality originates in our language). To me, “sober curious” implies that drinking is our default state. I wasn’t born consuming alcohol (or was I?). I understand how the Media needs to wrap things in some sort of theme, yet I find this particular theme ridiculous. When I go to a bar and don’t drink, it is not out of curiosity, it is out of self-preservation and a desire to show up as I truly am, not through some artificial filter that suppresses my fear and inhibitions. The nomenclature feels in some ways punitive or derogatory. “Ha! Look at that ‘sober-curious’ weirdo over there NOT slamming shots of Jagermeister! Oh, the humanity!”
In hindsight, there is nothing I regret about my decision to quit drinking alcohol. Sometimes, I suppose it would be nice (and perhaps a little less extreme) if I could enjoy a glass of wine with dinner. And then I think about how I am with chocolate (sugar, really) and I continue to choose to abstain. My spiritual evolution has definitely benefitted enormously. So has my evolution in my body. Not to be dramatic, however there’s better than 50/50 odds I would not be here had I continued drinking. So, thank you, small voice of self-preservation. Also, thank you Zoloft. There wasn’t much I enjoyed about our time together, but in the spirit of “reknowing” I can now see that you are what I needed to kick the liquor.
As always, thanks for reading. Tune in next time when we continue the slog up the slippery ladder of my life…
