I pulled out my old diaries. I was looking for proof. Documentation that my memories were real. I found it.
On October 19th, 1993 I wrote; “Alcoholism is a constant concern, I even went to an AA meeting in May”
I didn’t remember the meeting, I did remember knowing, even then, that alcohol had power over me. I was 28, living in LA, recently divorced from Grant. I even remember going to dinner with Grant around this time and not drinking and telling him my fear.
I found more proof. Either in the words or in the handwriting, the unfinished sentences, the wines stains on the paper. So much life lived. Drinking.
26 years later my daughter would call me drunk. It stung. The truth. I was no longer doing it in secret. There was no more hiding. No more late nights with me and my trusty bottle of wine alone with my thoughts. I was busted, like a teenager sneaking in a window, thinking I was invisible.
I knew this day was drawing near. I had a foreshadowing when I read my son’s text to a girl he was “in love” with last summer. He confided that his mom had a drinking problem. Damn it. Here it was said out loud to the world.
Two months before I was hungover and I confessed to my husband that I knew I needed to stop. That I was going to stop. I just didn’t know when. But I knew the how. I had been secretly watching. Other people. They would post about it on Facebook and I was envious. I didn’t see how I could possible get there.
That next morning I awoke hazy and the night before came seething back into focus. I was mortified. I didn’t really think. Instead I quickly messaged one of the people I had been watching on Facebook, she replied almost instantly. Next I plunked down $800 for Sobriety school. I calculated I would make that up in 53 days. That was all the thought I put into it. I had to do it and do it fast. Otherwise I would chicken out or rationalize or God knows what excuse I would come up with.
I knew about this, excuses. I had seen their insidious nature of always being at the ready, always there waiting to be put into action. My mom was a pro. My dad never even bothered with them.
I still had time. I still had a fighting chance. To begin anew, to change the story for my kids. The story that never was changed for me and that still fucks with me and my sisters. The story about alcoholism and rage and domestic violence and shame and guilt and keeping secrets.
I went back upstairs, my son was in bed. I woke him up and called his sister in. I was very emotional. I told them I was sorry. I promised that I would stop. I told them I didn’t exactly know how, that I would probably fall down along the way but that I was going to stop. I don’t know if they believed me, I am not sure I believed me.
I had almost a whole week before the school was going to start. I went to the bookstore and bought every resource the school recommended. I really don’t remember much about those first few days. How I got through them. I just knew if I could, I would be okay.
And I am. I am ok. I am actually more than okay even though my sleeping patterns are a little messed up. But I can bring my kid his forgotten toothbrush to his friend’s house at 10pm AFTER going to the monthly neighborhood women’s wine night because I drank Ginger Beer. And I can read a book and remember what I read. And better yet, I can remember everything my husband promised he said he would do after a late night conversation. wink… wink…
At 54 I can begin anew. Again. And it feels amazing. To do something I never thought I could. To be here, in this moment. Right here. Writing. With soda water and a splash of Cranberry.