Eight years ago, I stopped drinking alcohol. I didn’t want to stop but I was afraid of dying. After spending the day and evening drinking vodka before, during, and after a friend’s wedding, I woke up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat. This was a new experience for me and I just knew that my liver had finally shut down. My daughter was five years old at the time and it felt unfair to orphan her for a seabreeze buzz. Besides, I didn’t want her to think of me every time she heard ice clinking in a glass. I said that to a fellow recovering alcoholic once and she said, “Wow, you were still putting it in a glass?”
That was my problem. I was “still putting it in a glass.” I was a civilized drunk, mixing vitamin C enriched juices with chilled vodka only after completing my eight-hour workday or household chores. I was a ”functional” alcoholic, whose bills were paid and child was well cared for, so I didn’t think I needed to stop. My resume proved that I didn’t need to stop. An advanced degree. A solid work history with increasing responsibilities and longevity. A pristine credit report. A mortgage. No arrests. No DUIIs. Although I did crash a car once after drinking all day and night but the cop who showed up at the scene must’ve been in a hurry because he never questioned my sobriety. It was OK, though. My insurance premiums were current.
During those years, I also thought I was a great mother. I stayed sober throughout my pregnancy and long enough to breastfeed for six months but found an excuse to ween her in time for the holidays. I couldn’t imagine celebrating one more holiday without doing shots of exotic liqueurs. My daughter’s third Christmas found me sipping White Russians all day long. By the end of the day, I had drunk an entire fifth of Kahlua and half a fifth of vodka (not to mention all that cream). Lying in bed that night, I felt my heart race, working as hard as it could to pump the poison I drank throughout my body. I was afraid, but not scared enough to stop.
But still, I knew I was a great mother. I read all the books about parenting and got down on the floor with her to build puzzles, make towers out of blocks, and show her how not to force square Playskool pegs into round holes. We went for walks, played in the park, visited friends and family, kept our “well baby” appointments, and ate healthy meals together. All to the sound of ice clinking in a glass.
