Almost an alcoholic

Can someone be almost an alcoholic? I supposed it's one of those things where you either are or you aren't but, whatever the case, there was a time when I knew that was the road I was headed down and I felt like there was nothing I could do to stop it. I didn't even want to.

I am the daughter of a recovering alcoholic. My mother would never admit to that label but, she is. She used to buy rum in gallon jugs for Pete's sake. My dad's brother and father were alcoholics. The brother died of his. Just sat down at his mother's kitchen table one day, laid down his head, and died.

My most vivid memory from childhood is from when I was 8 years old. My mom was a bowler and us kids spent a lot of our time in bowling alleys. I remember liking it because there was always quarters for video games and well, bowling alley food. One night she took only me with her. I don't remember if my brothers were home with dad or a babysitter. I think it must have been the end of the season or something because I remember it being more festive than usual and we were there a lot later. If I had been older, I might have counted the rum and cokes my mom drank. If I had been older, I might have told someone not to let my mom drive us home. But I wasn't. I was only 8 and my only concern was to keep playing Ms. PacMan. The evening got late, I got tired. I started asking if we could go home. The bowling was done, now they were just hanging out. Every time I approached, another adult would hand me more quarters. I remember one man telling me to leave my mom alone. When we were finally on our way home, I got scared. Even my little 8 year old brain knew that we were on the wrong side of the road and that you were supposed to drive straight. I still remember the sound of the siren and the lights in the side-view mirror. I still remember my mom pulling over. I still remember watching my mom be put through the sobriety test on the side of the road while a second officer spoke to me. I don't remember a word he said to me, just my mom stupidly trying to walk a straight line and touch her nose in the lights of our van. I remember watching my mother be handcuffed and put into the back of the police car. I remember being scared. I remember being angry. I remember the second officer climbing into my mother's seat and driving me home. I don't remember much after that but I think it was a few days before my mom came home. There was probably more yelling than usual when she did get home but there was so much yelling anyway that it didn't make a difference. I don't remember at what point my dad explained to me that he was the only reason I didn't go into foster care.  

Fast forward to junior year. My mom was still a drinker. By this time I knew and understood the term "alcoholic". She was the worst kind of drunk. All pathetic tears and regrets. It irritated the fuck out of me. You'd think it would've been enough to keep me away from alcohol.

I didn't hang out with party kids, I had never tasted an alcoholic drink. But I was dating an older guy who did party and did drink and the first time I hung out with them I wanted to impress them so I got rip-roaring drunk. Puked all over the place and passed out drunk. I slunk home the next day, knowing my dad was gonna kill me. Strangely, all he did was laugh at me and talk really loud all day. That ended my drinking for the next four years.

My parents divorced around this time. There were a lot of reasons for it, and I was strangely relieved by it, but her drinking did contribute to it.

Fast forward again to where I'm a 21 year old, divorced (yes, the older guy from junior year is my first child's dad and my first ex-husband, there are two of those but that's another story), single mom with low self esteem and a solid foundation for hating all men. I discovered bars. I discovered dance floors and dollar drink night. I discovered a tolerance and capacity for alcohol that impressed men much bigger than I. I had a love affair with tequila. 

I suppose I wasn't a very good mom for a few years. 

At 25 I had had enough of being a struggling single mom and surprised the hell out of everyone (including myself) by joining the Navy. I remember looking at my daughter and realizing that she had nothing to be proud of me for. That hurt. My daughter went to live with her dad for a year while I attended boot camp and a couple of Navy schools. It is the only year of my adult life that I had to myself, where I wasn't tied to mommy expectations, and I behaved as such. I drank like a fish. I was studying to be an electronics technician and the classes were hard. I discovered that if I studied the night before a test with a pitcher of beer in front of me, I did much better (yes, I'm aware of how dumb that sounds but I swear it's true). The base bar was across the street from the barracks I lived in. I stumbled back to my room more often than not (a lot of us old enough to, did).

Fast forward a few more years and I'm married to a great guy who loves his beer. I graduate to wine, Riesling thank-you-very-much. I'm a steady sipper. I buy my wine at Costco. We're both funny, endearing drunks so we enjoy drinking together.

Another couple of years pass. We've added two gorgeous kids to our brood. I've experienced a ruptured disk and have chronic pain. I start slipping down the black pit of depression (didn't know that's what it was at the time of course, we'll discuss that another time). I've left the Navy to be a SAHM/student. 

I do believe I'm digressing...

Alcoholism sneaks up on you (at least in my case that's what it was doing). First you're just having a few with friends on Friday night. Then it's just one glass to unwind at the end of a particularly rough Monday. The next thing you know, and without even realizing it, you don't even need an excuse to drink. It's just something you do. And you'll do it alone. I would start with a glass while making dinner and just sip right on up until bedtime. Sometimes that meant one bottle, sometimes it meant as many as three. When you're a happy, funny drunk, it's hard to see it as a problem.

Five years ago I started having a lot of heart burn which escalated to esophageal spasms (if you ever want to know what it feels like to have a heart attack without having a heart attack, try one of these) and stabbing stomach pain. Three years ago my doc sent me to a gastrointestinal specialist who knocked me out and stuck a little camera up my nose and down into my stomach. Acid reflux. Yay me. I was put on a drug called Nexium that began to quench the fires in my belly. I kept drinking for a while despite the stomach pain that I refused to admit it caused. By this time I recognized it as self-medicating for the chronic back pain and the gaps that Prozac didn't fill.

Two Halloweens ago, at a party, I knocked out a bottle of my favorite wine then spent the next day throwing up and groaning in bed. It was months before I had another drink. Twice in the past year I have done this. The last time, about four months ago, scared me. I threw up until I was dry heaving and could only move when I needed to drag myself to the bathroom. It took me three days to recover. Thank God my kids are older and we were visiting family and daddy was with us to take care of them. On the other hand, it was really embarrassing to know that my kids were old enough to understand why mom was in the bedroom acting like she was dying.

Bam, "Mom, maybe you shouldn't drink grown-up drinks?"

Me, "I won't again dude, trust me, I won't."

But oh how I miss my wine! I miss it like the desert misses rain. 

Last Friday, when I went to the Painted Cabernet, I allowed myself two small glasses of wine while I channeled my inner Monet. It was just enough to make my face feel warm with the promise of better things if I just had another. I wanted more so bad it hurt. I was close enough to home to walk there. One more couldn't hurt. Right? Maybe I could go home and have one more from the bottle that's been in the fridge for the past year? Just one more. Just one more.

*sigh*

I didn't have one more. Because I knew if I opened that bottle in the fridge I would have to finish it, because that's what I do.

Am I an alcoholic? I don't know. I think I could've been. Luckily, I dislike the feeling of dying more than I like the warm fuzzies from a bottle of wine.

My mom would still never admit to having been an alcoholic. She hasn't drank in about five years I think. She and my step-father woke up to the fact that they were abusive to each other only when they drank and quit. She also had a run in with lung cancer and quit smoking finally (I'm a smoker, we'll talk about that nastiness another time).

Anyway, thank you acid reflux. While I hate you for taking away my wine, I think you saved me too.