Dry.

We are a loud family. Smoke from the grill carries laughter and voices into a clear blue August sky. No, not laughter, cackles. Guttural and hoarse. Guffaws. A collective unleashing of sound that only comes from generations of struggle and chain smoking. An almost psychotic unleashing of happiness derived straight from pain. Cracked and beautiful. Paper plates piled high, threatening to collapse under the weight of grease and salt. Potato salad, ribs, greens. Soul food. Music strains out from a cheap speaker in vain.The Stylistics never had a chance to be heard over the incredibly clever one-liner put downs, jokes, stories, nostalgic reminiscing of my family. People make the world go round.

At any one of these gatherings, the standard collection of family lore will be told:

Someone will comment on my Aunt Brownie's secret to aging gracefully. “98 and drinks Jim Beam every morning”.

Someone will tell the story about my Uncle Reese who notoriously ordered a glass of milk with his glass of scotch to “help it go down smoother” because he had an ulcer. 

Epic road trip tales from a time before seat belts or open container laws. When my Aunt Elsie would pack a cooler full of Miller in the backseat and everyone would drink and laugh and have a grand ole time driving down the highway. Smoking and carrying on. Young and beautiful. 

A simpler time. A whimsical, harmless time. A time cemented in gold. Generations of drinkers and lovers of life in their prime. My family is full of creative, stylish and remarkable human beings that I’ve always worshipped like Gods. We are all united in our dysfunctions and wit. You have to be super fucking hilarious to survive this world. Or drunk.

Drinking is not just heralded in my family. It’s glamorized globally. It’s a sign of living life to the fullest. Of being young and beautiful and reckless and sophisticated and life is just so damn hard… have a little drink to take the edge off. 

Bad day at work? Have a glass of wine. Great day at work? Celebrate with a champagne toast. Baby born? Drink up. Funeral? Drink more. Birthday? Drink until you pass out. Good times, bad times, in between times, Monday’s, Saturdays, Friday nights. There’s always a reason to drink and laugh and talk too loud and kiss too freely and hug and trip and stumble and fall and laugh again and wake up feeling like you’re really alive. You’re living. And you have the headache and epic story to prove it. 

But we all know that. I didn’t come here to say that. I came here to say that drinking ruined my life. And the lives of many people I love. 

Drinking ruined any real romantic love I’ve ever had. Drinking made me argue with my daughter and say really disgusting and shameful things I’ll never be able to take back. Drinking made me embarrass myself. Over and over and over again. Drinking made me drive way too fast towards the Ben Franklin bridge and actually contemplate taking a sharp right over the side of it. Mascara melting down my face in a mess of tears and snot like a fucking cliche. 

Drinking made me a cliche. 

It made me gross. This would be 86 pages long if I recounted all the times I wish I could erase from my memory. Suffice to say, I lost myself. I lost. My. Self. 

And you know what? None of that made me stop. Because when life goes to shit, that’s when you need to drink the most. I was on an intentional self-destructive path. Because I might as well go out with a bang of glory. The man left, the rent ain’t getting paid, the world sucks, just who cares. Bottle of wine a day minimum. Started adding cheap vodka into the mix because my budget was getting smaller and my tolerance was getting higher. Carrying around shots in my purse “just incase”. In case I was at an event that didn’t provide drinks. Couldn’t be totally sober. Why? Why would someone choose to live this life without a little help from Jose Cuervo? And I mean..I’m not on drugs? I’m not THAT bad right? I’m not shaking if I don’t go a few hours  without a drink. IT’S NOT THAT BAD! Everybody drinks. Who cares? 

I had a “who cares” attitude until I realized that unless I really was actually going to end my life, I was going to be here a little longer. I was a relatively healthy 40ish year old woman. I still had decades left. I can’t pinpoint an exact date or time or moment, but I started to change. Slowly. Daily. A constant struggle each day until I finally started to see a path back to my real self. 

I became a cliche. 

A protein powder mixing, running club joining, hiking, biking, loving life, active fitness junkie woman. Book clubs, journaling, camping, road tripping, drinking coffee while working on a puzzle at 6 am,  woman. I even adopted a cat. 

A gorgeous cliche. 

I just completed a dry January. Each morning I checked my blood pressure. My heart rate. I was waiting for withdrawal symptoms. I thought I might die. I had to let my closet friends know what I was doing, in case I suddenly had to be hospitalized. But I was ok with that. If that’s how far it had gotten, that I needed to go and medically get treatment, I was prepared. I was, for the first time in my life, facing my demons head on. But (spoiler alert) I didn’t die. The first week passed and I was ok. No withdrawal symptoms really. (See I told you it wasn’t that bad!) Thank you, kick ass internal organs for coming through. My body really has been through too much. I am grateful. 

Additionally, I wasn’t boring. I wasn’t empty. I was still myself. 

I thought hey, maybe I  don’t have to be a tragic alcoholic tortured soul to write (blame Hemingway for that idealism). I could be me and actually BE me. I lived through it. 

(Blah blah therapy, self-love bullshit bullshit ya’ll know the recipe for a good life.) All those things aren’t just catchy instagram  posts, they all actually work. I did “the work”. And yes now it’s March. And I have my espresso martinis and such because I enjoy them. But not to get drunk. Not to hide insecurities. Not to try and be clever and funny and the life of the party. I’m content with being myself and being quieter and calmer. In my little fish tank bubble of a life. I don’t need to burn out in a blaze of ethanol fire. 

I’m going to be just fine. Sitting here with Gatsby the cat, and my roses I bought for myself, and my fancy tea and charcuterie board and heated blanket and twinkle lights and candles and rent paid and face mask and sober mind. I am going to be just fine.