Giving up alcohol has been the hardest and the most rewarding thing I’ve ever done. Side note: I’m a single mom, which has not been a cakewalk. The day was May 1st, 2006. I was coming off of a weekend bender with alcohol where I attempted to control my drinking. (Newsflash, I couldn’t.)
The next day, at the advice of a nurse at a local women’s rehabilitation center I’d previously met with, I did something crazy. With 24 shaky hours sober, I was detoxing and somehow had managed to not take a drink. Out of ideas of how to beat this thing, dreaming of tequila and tacos, I drove to my first women’s only meeting and caught alcoholism.
Now, rewind a bit – I’d previously visited Residence XII in Kirkland, WA, an all-female rehab joint, for an evaluation. This was my hat trick – third evaluation in just one month. These experts kept telling me I had substance use disorders and needed to be locked up. Clearly, they got me mixed up with someone else. I mean, I just needed to learn how to say no to that last margarita!
The game-changer? This time, I decided to lay it all out there. No more pretending I could handle my liquor like a lady. I asked them point-blank, “Can’t you just whip up a magic pill to help me sip my wine gracefully?”
I’d spent more than 16 years referring to myself as a professional drinker. I mean, if they can have professional gamers, why not, right? Did my drinking have consequences? Oh, honey, where do I start? The list is longer than a grocery shopping trip when you’re on a diet. But despite my blurry nights (I was a blackout drinker, so there’s plenty I don’t remember or wish to forget), I hadn’t lost everything…yet. I still had my job, my son, a roof over my head, some savings, a car, and a driver’s license that hadn’t been revoked. But boy, was I teetering on the edge of disaster. My friends even had a nickname for me – B.O.B., short for “Black-Out-Bryson”. I wore it like a designer label that I’d found at a thrift store.
During my evaluation, I let it all out. No holds barred. And their verdict? They suggested I check in for a 28-day stay. My mind instantly jumped to Sandra Bullock’s movie “28 Days” and I freaked out. Live with strangers for a month? Leave my job and my son? Are these folks off their rockers?! The idea of keeping a plant alive and adopting a dog was too much. But making out with a professional baseball player in the woods behind rehab? Now that, I could get behind.
Confront me if I don’t ask for help
That was a no go for me. I was in pain, but not THAT much pain. I quickly asked about other options. Like how about a pill? Maybe start seeing a regular therapist that specializes in addiction? Is there a TED Talk I could listen to? Hypnotherapy perhaps? I can be very persuasive when I want to be. I pleaded for any other options besides a 28-day lock-up.
Reluctantly, they offered me the option of Out-Patient treatment that would be three days a week, three hours a day, in the evenings, over a three-month period. As a bonus, my insurance would cover all of it minus the $20 co-pay. “Sign me up!” I exclaimed as my mind started already scheming what brilliant excuses I could use to “no-show” at least once a week, making the three day per week commitment seem more manageable.
“How soon can you start?”
I was asked how soon I could start. Mmmmm, oh, now let me think about that. It was the middle of April, and I was a single mom Conitworking a full-time job with a very healthy commute. “How about June?” I suggested. The intake evaluation lady, looking straight through my bullshit, quickly replied, “How do you plan on staying sober between now and then?” Trying to scramble for an answer, I had none. She then asked, “Can you control your drinking?”
And there it was! The BRILLIANT idea I was seeking. Just control my drinking. Why hadn’t I thought of that myself? “Oh yes, I should be able to do that,” I said somewhat slowly. (I’m a terrible liar btw.) She then asked me how. I think I fumbled through some kind of excuse like “I don’t have to drink every day” or “I’ll just try to only drink two” or some other nonsense like that. Then she asked me if I’d ever been to an AA meeting. “Yes, I have. I went to one and they are not for me. I’m not like those people.” (Emphasis on the “those people”)
In my head, I had already stereotyped that alcoholics were homeless, didn’t have teeth, and drank all day and night out of brown paper bags regardless of consequences. Clearly, that did not describe me with my bleached teeth and lululemon’s. She then explained that they held a women’s only 12 step meeting at the treatment center every Tuesday night at 7:30 pm called Sober Gals, and that I was welcome to come by and check it out anytime I wanted. She hinted I might find several women there that I thought were “more like me”.
Meanwhile, I filed that away and attempted to control things. I know I can fix this on my own.
I filed that away and headed out of that appointment firmly resolved to either not drink or only have two. Nothing or two. Nothing or two. Two or Nothing. Inside my head, I started picturing the two largest classes in my house that I could use for my “two drink limit”.
Here’s the problem. I could drink nothing, but then I became highly agitated, and my life still seemed totally unmanageable. But white knuckling this was only going to hold out for so long. Or, I could only have two drinks. Because if I had three, then I couldn’t stop. Not until I ran out or passed out or blacked out. I knew this from years and years of practical experience. So, two would be the magic number. When I was able to accomplish this, probably not more than twice, I was still miserable, and my life was still unmanageable.
This is how I spent the last two weeks of April 2006. Testing myself with not drinking, drinking only two, not drinking around Jakob (my son who was nine at the time), not drinking before 8 pm, never drinking in the morning. Changing what I drank. Drinking wine instead of my true love vodka. No matter what dumb rule I made for the day it wasn’t working. I was out of ideas.
I didn’t know it at the time, but Sunday, April 30th would be the last day I would drink alcohol.
My last drink was not planned, nor expected. The last remaining booze I had in the house was an opened, room temperature warm, wine bottle that my nine-year hold had filled with gumballs in an effort to keep me from drinking it. Sorry kid, but you have no idea how desperate I am. He looked over at me sadly and the went back to watching Scooby Doo and playing his video games. Meanwhile I was binging Sex & the City episodes and had started an excel spreadsheet calculating how many drinks they had per episode along with how many sex partners they were racking up. Why did they look so glamorous, and I just felt pathetic?
And that brings us to Tuesday, May 2nd, 2006.
I’d called in sick to work for two days in a row coming off that rough weekend. In between sobbing sessions, I was pacing back and forth chain-smoking, while my son was at school, just trying not to drink. Gnawing in the back of my head, I kept thinking about the Sober Gals meeting that was at 7:30 pm Tuesday night.
Were these women going to be like me? Did they not only have their teeth but bleach them too? What brand are their yoga pants? Do they binge-watch Sex & the City and imagine that their life is better than it really is? What about all of the dark things that have happened in my life. Will they judge me if I talk about them? Will they just sit around and complain? Because I have no patience for that. Is it just a big cryfest? Are they going to try and hug me and hold my hand? Not interested. No thanks. These were the many questions I had, and I was out of answers. Pain is a motivator, at least for me it is. Like it or not, I was very motivated.
Rehab parking lots
I remember pulling into the parking lot and noticing what kinds of vehicles were parked and trying to not make eye contact with anyone walking into the building. Sitting as close to the door as I could possibly manage, I pretended to check emails on my cherry red Blackberry right up until the meeting started. I sat there on that cold metal chair and spent the next hour listening to women I had never met before, in my life, talking about things that they had done, or seen, or that had happened to them that were exactly like things I had done, I had seen, or that had happened to me. Every. Single. Woman.
WTF is happening?!?!?
Every single woman that spoke that night pierced into me like a top-notch cutting knife landing into a perfectly cooked steak. The appearance of toughness on the outside, but once smoothly cut into, totally tender at the center and easy to digest. I am exactly like each and every woman in this room. It was at that moment I truly, at my core, accepted that I am an alcoholic. I caught alcoholism right then and there. (Insert the f-word in all caps here.)
Overwhelmed by emotions, I darted out of that meeting as fast as I could and ran to the parking lot to lock myself in my car. (Side note, I don’t run anywhere unless Nordstrom is having a sale.) I didn’t stay to hold hands in a circle. Nor did I put my chair away. Holding back tears, I found myself chanting “do not cry public, do not cry in public” over and over again in my head. Driving home I was a potpourri of emotions, tears streaming down my flushed face with my Marlboro menthol light hanging out of my mouth.
Crying, yelling, screaming, angry laughing, shaking my fist at God. I was not happy. “I have to give up vodka. Are you F&*#!% kidding me? If that’s the case, then just give me one more sign!!!” I demanded out loud at the top of my lungs headed north on Interstate 405 in my white Chrysler Pacifica.
“If that’s the case then just give me one more sign!!!” (**shakes fist in air screaming, driving up north I-405**)
At that exact moment, an audible *DING* went off in my car. As I peered into the dashboard over my salty tears and menthol smoke, my car read to me two simple words. “Perform Service“.
Jesus take the wheel, God was in my dashboard!!!!
This is my once-in-a-lifetime burning bush experience. That’s the only way I can possibly describe something to you that is truly indescribable. It was that spiritual. So much so, I had to pull over on the side of the highway and just sit with my feelings. I cried. I laughed. And then I ugly cried laughed and snot went flying all over my leather steering wheel. “Well played God, who I also refer to as the boss, well played.” That’s the thing about demanding things from God – be careful what you ask for!
Perform. Service.
As I sat there, just letting it all release, I finally looked back up, wiping tears and mascara out of my eyes. Tossing my tear-soaked, menthol cigarette butt out the window and lighting up another one, I peered back into the dashboard. My point of view had changed.
Now it was showing me that I had a little less than 1/4 of a tank of gas. And at that exact moment, I heard these words as clear as if the person firmly speaking was sitting in the front passenger seat right next to me leaning in closely …
”You can give it up now before you are on empty. The next time I come for you it will on empty. You will be in a much different situation. Do you want to lose everything, including maybe your life? Because that is where this is headed sister. Is this really what you want your legacy to be? Is this how you want your son to remember you? You were created to be more than this, but the choice is yours. I gave you free will, how you use it is your choice.”
I have not had a drink since that day.
Now, this isn’t because I haven’t wanted to. The last 16+ years have been an incredible ride. One that was incredibly hard and incredibly rewarding beyond my wildest dreams. I went to treatment, I started going to meetings, I got sponsors, and I did the work. Not really that well for the first few years, because I learned how to fake being sober by using buzz words, being funny, and carrying around a big blue book with a book cover on it. (An indicator I was taking my program serious.)
My recovery journey has had ups and downs and I can honestly say that my wildest dreams have come true. It ended up looking so much different than I thought it would, but I wouldn’t give up one sober day for anything. Not even the super hard sober days.
The longer I stay sober, the less I know.
That said, being of service to others is what I have discovered the “secret sauce” of recovery to be. At least, that has been my experience. Hang around me long enough, and you won’t really hear me talk too much about my drunk-o-logs and druggie days. What you will witness is how I light up when I share with you the miracles I’ve seen of the people around me that have found their solution to recovery.
I heard early on that I never have to drink again if I don’t want to. And now that I’ve seen what life can be like without it, I’ll keep fighting the good fight, one day a time. Even on those days that my brain tells me “It would be different now” or “You’re so much more mature now, you can handle it.” Those voices are still inside me; they just don’t stand a chance against the power that I’ve been able to tap into, which turned out to be inside of me all along.
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