“Twenty Minutes.”

When my daughter was home from college recently, we happened to stumble on a home-made DVD from about twenty years ago labeled “Big Falls Jam”.

It was a super grainy video in a dimly lit living room, where a group of my dad’s friends were playing music. We were all sitting around, laughing, catching up, having a great time.

Towards the end of the video, and numerous cocktails in, someone mentions that I should now sing a song.

Following that suggestion, a drunken “in which key” and “not that key” tiff ensued between all of us, for about ten torturous minutes. Until I reluctantly at one point started half ass singing a sad and slow version of a Patty Loveless song.

Nothing wraps up a good party like a tearjerker.

I couldn’t even remember how the first verse of the darn song went, how to get started, let alone figure out what key it was in.

As I sat there listening to myself, I couldn’t help but think I sounded exactly like a spoiled brat at a birthday party. I was certain that I must have ruined everyone else’s buzz that had to sit there and listen to it. You could even see one part towards the end, where my dad gives me the Jesus, is she going to quit talking, hand gesture.

I sat there and watched the whole scene unfold.

I was mortified.

I wished I could have melted right into the damn couch cushions. Or just disappeared from the planet altogether.

Someone asked me recently, “How long did you last at the bar for your first time without alcohol?”

I blurted out at lightning speed

“Twenty minutes.”

“Gaaagh! Twenty minutes?! That’s not even an entire episode of Seinfeld!” they said, laughing.

I began to wonder how I spent hours in the bar at a time. How did I make it feel fun? And when I thought about it, how much money had I spent playing Ocean Front Property on TouchTunes over the years?

I knew I had memories and good times, but suddenly, standing in the bar with my plastic glass of Diet Coke and sad straw, everything felt almost impossible without alcohol.

I could feel the walls closing in, feel every popcorn kernel being crunched between hungry teeth, hear every paper tab being pulled from the box.

Laughter from every corner of the room was seemingly amplified and coming at me from every direction. It had only been twenty minutes.

Was this what a panic attack feels like?

I suddenly turned to my husband and whispered,

“I have to bail.”

I grabbed the keys, did an Irish goodbye, and left the parking lot.

I cried so hard on the mile drive home that I could barely see the lines on the road in front of me as the truck curved in the dark.

Why on earth was I crying? Just because I couldn’t be someone who has a few drinks and goes home?

That is absolutely friggin ridiculous.

After everything I’ve accomplished, how did I get to the point where something so simple as liquid had that much control over me?

I was so confused.

Afraid.

Angry.

Damn it I was angry.

Angry for having a problem, and equally confused about who I was, without alcohol.

I was terrified that I wouldn’t know how to be funny, or simply know how to exist in a social setting without it.

I remember even being salty at my husband when I had to leave the bar that first time sober, for him not loudly exclaiming to everyone across the bar

“Get out of the way! This is my LADY and I am accompanying her home this very instant!” as he whisks me outside exiting stage left.

Like what world do I live in?!

You can see the delusional train I was derailing on, right? I allowed myself to get pissed at people who had their own drinking, under control. How absolutely insane.

Having to sit in my own skin without alcohol made me see the problem from outside myself. It was like the adult me dropping my younger self off at a train station with a first-class ticket, saying here, get your little butt on the train and go get better.

There was no other way around it. I had to face the fact that I had a super unhealthy relationship with alcohol and, quite possibly, didn’t even like myself without it.

After that initial sober attempt at the bar, sitting in my living room with the thought of everyone carrying on without me, I had never felt so... alone.

Not in my entire life.

How does that work?

Alone.

In a house with warmth? Love? Cats, dogs, a beautiful family?

I was so confused.

I wasn't confused about whether or not I had a problem. That had become pretty obvious over the years. Like when I fell and sliced my chin open on the bedpost or left the car running in the driveway after a night out, and certainly by the time I had knocked myself out falling into the bathtub after a night of Jameson during COVID.

I was so perplexed about who I was going to be without the booze.

Was I still going to be funny?

Well, maybe.

Maybe I wasn't going to be the life of the party.

Could I even be the life of my party?

Will my husband not think I’m fun anymore?

Is he going to leave me for a younger, more fun drunk version of me that can keep up?

Okay. I knew realistically that was probably not going to happen, because it would mean he would have to keep up with her too.

What if I removed alcohol from the equation and there wasn't much left to like? That was probably one of the hardest realizations of all.

I tried dramatic declarations of “I’m never drinking again,” and that didn’t work, sadly.

I can’t tell you how many times I threw away a pack of cigarettes or a bottle of booze, swearing I was done, only to dig them back out of the trash, or drive back to the store the very same day, caving in.

For me, just making the initial decision to get better with my daughter in mind, and not wanting her to be disappointed in me, was enough. I also knew that with the right support I could always build from there. When it came to getting sober, committing to something forever felt overwhelming.

That’s probably why they say one day at a time?

At first, when I had to cut alcohol out of my life, I would sometimes find myself on the way to a social event and get this overwhelming urge that I was just not quite ready for it.

Like this one time, I got as far as in my parking spot at a wedding reception, only to literally back up and go home at the sight of the sheer drunkenness spilling out of the venue before I could even get out of the car.

Bahaha!

Can you imagine?

RSVP’ing two months in advance. Choosing the cashew chicken, dreaming of stuffing cupcakes all night only to look gorgeous, pull up, and go straight home and put on pajamas.

See what I’m saying? I wasn’t about to put myself into situations that would actually make it more difficult.

There’s stepping out of my comfort zone in a healthy way, and then there’s forcing myself into an environment that totally defeats the purpose.

It took about eight months before I went back into a bar, and even then, I had to proceed with caution. Getting over the shame of choosing sobriety seemed to be one of the largest hurdles for me.

To not have a drink is still a daily choice that I make, and it’s been 5 and a half years since I have had a drop of alcohol. The pivotal point in my sobriety journey was when I stopped trying to be everything to everyone and not only told myself but understood, that it’s okay to not have everything under control. And it’s okay if everything is not perfect.

In my life there has always been a constant presence of alcohol. It has also been how my family has marked special occasions, happy, sad, big or small.

When I sat and thought about how much drinking had been in my life at any level, I started to realize that it was kind of just, normal.

I had myself convinced that normalcy looked like being a mom, a wife, and then going back to work until the wee hours of the morning after everyone else was in bed. I had also convinced myself that in order to work late, I would need alcohol to keep me company. I unfortunately would be massively hung over every other morning, and the circle would just continue on and on.

I thought I could do it all.

Be there for my career. Be there for my family. And booze would just be my personal assistant behind the scenes quieting the noise in my head at the end of a long day, handing me an ice-cold whiskey on the rocks and Camel crush in the crisp air of a Fall evening.

But after many years of putting myself through that sophisticated type of behavior, my body was like, umm, we need to talk, making the decision for me.

Staying sober, also meant learning to be more kind to myself.

I had spent a lifetime in a co-dependent relationship with alcohol when times got busy. Ironically, times just seemed to stay busy, all the time. I knew that I had to find out who I was, without the crutch.

So I started some intensive therapy, which made me see myself as this little girl sitting there, hands wrapped around her knees, head hung low, needing comfort, some serious therapy, and someone to say, honey, it’s okay now, I’ve got you.

Taking the leap into mental health at 45 years old showed me that there are healthy ways to begin letting go of what I have been carrying for so many years.

Once I began to understand the why behind my drinking, frustrations, the anxiety, my life almost seemed to get easier.

Relationships got stronger.

Colors got brighter.

I felt more.

Yes. Feeling. It was surprisingly...liberating.

I found that in the past five years without using alcohol, experiences tend to also mean more when I remember them. I also don’t spend the next day recovering with half the medicine cabinet, grape Propels, and the menu at McDonald’s.

It’s not to say that all the years of drinking didn’t come with some entertaining material, stories, or unforgettable memories.

Like, how did we successfully pay a cab driver in Christmas cookies? Why was an entire brisket still sitting out on the counter at 9 a.m. from the night before? Or how did it happen a second time?

People often say “be kind to yourself.”

Man. That’s a tough one, isn’t it?

It seems like trying to be more kind to oneself is a constant work in progress. It doesn’t seem like a one-time liberty we should allow ourselves either.

Don’t let something difficult stop you from putting yourself first.

If you know someone who is struggling, or would like to try sobriety, show them some love and say “Hey, I see you. I’m here if you need me.”

I’d like to end by saying that if you have a healthy relationship with alcohol, that’s wonderful.

Being able to enjoy it without it taking more than what it gives is a great place to be. Bravo!

Whether it’s with a mocktail or cocktail,

Cheers!