A pulse of discomfort radiates from one side of my jaw as I find myself drifting into memories of clinking glasses and frothy beers. The vivid recollections of wine-stained lips and the burn of spirits flood my mind, reminding me of battles fought and lost. Searing pain shoots through my nerves, a reminder of the fatigue that engulfs me. How did it come to this? How have I not conquered my demons after years of striving for recovery and understanding?
With a dull sword rather than a shield, I confront my fears. Each drink, each swirl of alcohol, offers a temporary escape—a chance to forget or, at least, to pretend. Moments of stress and feelings of inadequacy fade faster, and the sharpness of pain dulls. Yet, the game of chasing laughter and joy feels like a fleeting victory, elusive as ever.
My thoughts frequently drift to the cold lager in the fridge, the vodka on the shelf, the Merlot waiting to be poured. I usually maintain a grip on my impulses, but lately, it feels like my obsession has spiraled out of control. I never battled anxiety or depression until my early twenties, but when they arrived, alcohol became my crutch. I drank to silence the worry, to feel liberated, convinced that others preferred the tipsy version of me over my sober self.
That reckless behavior escalated until one fateful work trip where I was nearly incapable of walking, leading to my husband, Mark, confronting me. I can still see the disappointment in his eyes when I laughed off my drunken escapade, claiming it was just a mix-up of cold medicine and beer. That was the moment I realized I needed to change.
“How could you get so drunk after just starting a new job, needing help to get back to the hotel?” he asked, his anger shocking me. I had done many foolish things while intoxicated, yet this seemed so trivial in comparison.
I faced the daunting question: how could I relinquish alcohol, my long-time companion? In college, drinking was a bond that tied me to my friends. I remember carefree nights filled with heavy drinking and reckless choices, often ending in embarrassing situations. Those nights became a routine—a cycle of intoxication and regret.
On our honeymoon at an all-inclusive resort, I overindulged, leading to a fight with Mark that marked our early marriage. After college, I found a new group of friends who shared my passion for partying. I couldn’t just enjoy a single drink; I had to dive headfirst into excess, convinced that my presence was essential for a good time, even if it meant becoming the punchline.
One night, I drove to an ex-boyfriend’s house under the influence, spilling apologies and insecurities, a clear reflection of my chaotic emotional landscape. My father’s struggles with addiction had laid the groundwork for my own. I remember moments of him picking us up with bruises or taking us for fast food, a stark contrast to the chaos that surrounded him.
But then came Marcus and Mia—my precious little ones. I truly believe they saved me.
In the midst of my struggles, I would find myself wrestling with the urge for just one more drink, seeking to numb the chaos within. Yet, as soon as I laid eyes on my children, everything shifted. The love I felt for them was immediate and profound. When I was pregnant, I would often lay awake, gently rubbing my belly, reminding them they were my greatest hope.
No longer did I need to wash away my worries with alcohol. Instead, piggyback rides and visits to the zoo replaced chaotic parties and hangovers. My life transformed, and I am forever grateful for that.
Thank you, Marcus and Mia, for being the light that guided me away from the darkness.