The last time I got drunk

Originally published July 26, 2017

The last time I got drunk I was at a baby shower. That's embarrassing. I mean, who gets drunk at a baby shower? To be fair, it was for parents who were adopting, so there were no pregnant ladies there imbibing inappropriately. My drinking started well before the late afternoon baby shower though, with a couple of my favorite cocktail of the day: the cosmopolitan. They were yummy. A lot of bite with only a little bark. If you don't remember, they were comprised of a lot of vodka, a little bit of Triple Sec and a splash of cranberry, mostly for color. If I was feeling festive, a lime twist. Two of those mid-afternoon and I was ready to hit the party. Glad to see a wine bar, I picked a water glass and filled it with a delightful white. Hell, who I am I kidding. I don't remember if it was delightful. It was wine. Who cared? Ready for my third glass, I stopped to listen to myself. A little slurry with the words, a little loud with the laugh. A not so little third glass of wine. Did I mention this was at a baby shower? That thought also entered my head. Consciously. I thought: I'm at a baby shower. I'm getting drunk. I'm pretty sure people are looking at me. A nice refreshing Coke looked at me. I looked at the red label and thought: I probably should slow down and have a Coke. I think I'm embarrassing myself. And I continued to pour and drink the third glass of wine, along with a fourth. Good thing my husband picked me up and took me to dinner, where I had one more cocktail, and another bottle of wine, and an after dinner drink. That night I had a panic attack. Something was wrong with me. I just knew it. After throwing up most of a pricey dinner, I paced the house most of the night. I thought it was because I missed Isabel, who was at her Grandma's for the night. She was two years old. The next morning, my husband (at the time) said, "I think there's something wrong with you." Ya think?, which I didn't say to him. I did think, he's right, but I have no idea what it is. I had for years wondered why I couldn't drink like normal people. The first time I got drunk I drank 13 beers and threw up 9 times. I was 14 years old.

In rehab I learned that the manner in which you consume alcohol the first time you drink is likely the way you will always drink. And I did. Technically, my kind of drinking is called binge drinking. Occasionally I had only a drink or two, but mostly I drank a lot. And I never didn't drink if there was drinking to be done. My friends tried to tag me as the designated driver once. They learned that was futile. I just couldn't not drink.

Left, in college, where binge drinking is expected. This is my best friend, Laura, who always managed just one beer.

Drinking until I threw up never bothered me. Well, it bothered me for a bit, like when I was throwing up, or when I was about to throw up, but after it happened it was like it never happened. I was right back at it. But I did wonder, why do I have to drink until I throw up? So on Monday morning after the baby shower, I called the free counseling service provided by the hospital system I worked for. I told Bonnie that I had a panic attack Saturday night, and couldn't figure out what was wrong with me. I told her I felt like my eyes were coming out of my head, and that my life was out of control. That was the best way I could articulate it. I carefully left out the part about drinking until I vomited for 17 years. On second thought, maybe I wasn't that articulate. We reviewed my life: married with one child; college educated; successfully employed; home-owner; car owner; intact extended family; close to parents; exercises regularly; attends church pretty regularly. "Well, Erika, I just don't know what it could be," Bonnie said, clearly puzzled. Then something in me mellowed. An honest bubbled up in me. I guess I was finally tired of all that vomiting. "There is this one thing, Bonnie," I treaded into it lightly. "I drink a lot." "A lot of water?" she said. I think we had just reviewed my vigorous exercise regime. "No, Bonnie. Alcohol. I drink a lot of alcohol," I said. Finally, I vomited the right thing. "OH!" she said. "Tell me more about that." And I told her the baby shower story. About consciously wanting to stop drinking, but not being able to do it. She knew exactly what was wrong. "Erika!! You're an alcoholic and you can never drink again," she said very matter-of-factly. And she was right. There was no question. I am an alcoholic. What a relief to finally know that. Of all the diseases I could have, I think alcoholism is one of the best. I know that's sounds weird, but hear me out. First, I believe it is a disease. My body and my brain react differently to alcohol that other people's bodies do. If you ate broccoli and it made you throw up, would you eat it again? Logically, no. Or, it would be a long time until you ate it again. The very first time I drank I threw up 9 times. I can drink a lot of alcohol and my memory bank doesn't care that it makes me vomit. That combination leads to physically dangerous behavior, which is unhealthy for me and other people around me. Second, I believe it is a disease that can only be treated by me and God. Now, if I had cancer, I would be at the doctor's office. For all the smarts he had, Steve Jobs had funny ideas about self-healing cancer. But addiction, it can only be treated by me and God, in our partnership together. (Statistically, this is true. I'm not totally crackers. Most people in long term recovery have a relationship with God.) Surely, it is God who saves me; I will trust and not be afraid. For the Lord is my stronghold and my sure defense, and God will be my Savior.

First song of Isaiah, from Isaiah 12 If you've ever been to church, or at least Episcopalian church, you're now humming this song. This song always makes me cry a little bit. Surely it is God who saves me. From myself. From others. From damage done, and from damage I could have done.

How is it that God keeps me sober? In the first few years of my sobriety, I included the fact that I was in recovery within the five sentences of meeting someone new. It was like a subconscious game I played with myself: how can I fit in I'm a recovering alcoholic to the newest Girl Scout mom? Where would When I was in rehab fit best as I compare notes on step aerobics class with the new girl? How can I say At my 12-step group as I swing casually on my new neighbor's front porch? Which are all completely counterintuitive ways to dealing with addiction, if you've ever met a recovering addict. Which, likely, you haven't, because in the rooms you're brainwashed into the A part of the club. Don't tell anyone. They'll ostracize you. You'll lose your job. They won't understand. I didn't see how I couldn't not tell anyone. Everyone had to know, or else I would die, because that would give me license to drink, if someone didn't know I couldn't drink. Because everyone we knew drank, and all of society drinks. It's impossible to get around it. In our culture, binge drinking is so acceptable, even celebrated at places like college, and at celebrations like bridal showers. There's now a genre of movies dedicated to the all-weekend binge; it's so funny, all the shenanigans and slapstick things that happen. Until someone dies. In the movie, though, that's even funny. It's probably not to parents of college students who don't come home. It's interesting what happens to you at a party, though, once people know you are a recovering alcoholic. "How didgh chou know swhen it wash stime to stopch drinkghing?" I got that question a lot. I learned that that drunk person has had doubts in her own mind about her drinking habits, and are wondering when enough is enough. But I also learned that you can't tell someone else they're an alcoholic. And, they're drunk, so whatever I say isn't going to matter much. I do hope, though, that they think about it again in the morning, and maybe think differently about knowing that someone like me is a recovering alcoholic. Isabel was 2 when I stopped drinking and 5 when I started talking with her about it. Thank you, Red Ribbon Week. It was 7 a.m. on a school day and Isabel and I were having a bagel at the kitchen island in the little house we shared together. She was telling me about the shirt they made for the Red Ribbon Parade, the anti-drug and alcohol campaigns celebrated in most elementary schools each fall. It's a great idea, except for one flaw. Isabel's kindergarten class had made shirts with their handprints, which fanned out and formed the mane of a lion on the front. On the back it said "We're not lion, we don't do drugs." They were so cute. Except for that flaw. "Isabel, do you know what alcohol and drugs are?" "Nope." Therein lies the flaw. And I'd only had half cup of coffee. Isabel was 5 years old. It was 7 a.m. It was time to have this conversation. Isabel's dad is not an alcoholic, but I knew he liked to have a beer with dinner. "Does your dad ever have a drink in a brown bottle at dinner?" I asked her. "Yes," she says. "Well, that's a beer, and it has alcohol in it, which only adults can drink," I explained. In our house, diet Coke was the adult beverage denied her, and it came in a silver can. "It's ok that you're dad drinks it, but I can't drink it, because it makes me sick." "Oh," she said. And I went on to talk about drugs, that a doctor or a mom could give you something if you were sick, but you really didn't want to take any other kinds of drugs that a doctor or a mom didn't give you. I was kinda proud of myself. Knocked it out of the park. At 7 a.m. With little coffee.. Then she said: "Once, I had a sip...." she lowered her head in shame. I about came off my seat. I was sure she was going to say of her dad's beer and I was going to have to yell at him about how could he do that what with me being in recovery and .... "of Coke." She said quickly. I lowered myself back into my seat and tried to suppress a smile. I had overused the term: adult beverage. But she hadn't finished her admission. "And I liked it." She finished quickly, and put her hand over her mouth. Then I had to burst out into laughter. I assured her Coke was actually fine for her to drink; it was just the caffeine, which was in mommy's coffee (and which I still didn't have enough of, yet) and was fine for her to drink, just in small amounts. At the same time, though, I was scared for her. I am scared for her. For research that shows genealogical patterns of addiction. For high school where drinking is a rite of passage. For colleges where binge drinking is the norm. For weddings where it's the celebrant. I've continued that conversation with Isabel for 12 years. I know that without my addiction I wouldn't know this. But I also regret all that I missed because I was drunk, and all the hurt I caused because I was drunk. Wouldn't it be fun, I told Isabel, to go to those same parties and not be drunk? So you can see how ridiculous drunk people act, and so you can decide how and if you want to have fun with them, if you can? If I could go back and do it again, be stronger, and be more interesting, I would do it without alcohol. Actually, I would probably do different things, more interesting things, more things. But I wouldn't be here, now, in Sewanee, married to Michael, and mom to Isabel. I don't know where I'd be, and there's no place I'd rather be. So it's a double-edged sword, one I'll carry for the rest of my life. Laura (in the picture above) once chastised me for regretting things: without those things, events, decisions, you wouldn't be who you are or where you are today, she told me a long time ago, so regretting them is purposeless; just make sure you don't repeat those mistakes again. Michael admonishes me to not project my life onto Isabel, who, being good at math and team sports, clearly is not following in my footsteps.