Drinking Diaries: The Question
Is the pleasure of drinking worth the suffering it causes? Yes. If it is. Only you know. I couldn’t deny, at some point, that the amount of perceived pleasure I thought I was receiving wasn’t worth the damage, the suffering I experienced later. And I am not talking about a physical sickness, but just a sadness, a tiredness, the hassle factor that seemed to be greater depending on the amount consumed. The scales weren’t level anymore. The fun wasn’t a sure thing. The drinks weren’t necessary packing the punch I was later paying (“paining” ) for.
The Break Up
QUITTING DRINKING IS LIKE BREAKING UP WITH A LOVER. This guy is sexy, fun, silly, brings out something you love about you, exciting, crazy, eager to do shit, sometimes he is seems really interested in what you are saying, doing Etc.
Drinking Diaries: When I was a little girl
When I was a little girl I was going to be an actress, a famous actress and singer and, and, and dancer and writer! I would spend hours in my room making up songs and writing commercials that me and my friends could act out for my parents and neighbors out on the lawn in the summer. I would play records, Diana Ross, The Four Seasons, look at my poster of Leif Garrett and dance around the room with my pencil (skinny microphone) to my lips blasting out the lyrics over and over again. I was totally self sufficient on the entertainment level.
Drinking Diaries: I am an Athletic Alcoholic
I am an Athletic Alcoholic, or an Alcoholic Athlete. Oxymoron? no, just moron. ha ha
Does the alcohol fuel the exercise or does the exercise allow the alcohol? Well, both. Exercise was a way to repent for the drinking. Staying up late consuming alcohol meant getting up early sweating that fluid out. Drop for drop, more alcohol meant more sweat, less alcohol graced me with less “force”, but still some suffering needed to happen, the body would pay for my sins.
Drinking Diaries: False belief
Although I KNEW that if I quit drinking then Sunday and Monday mornings would HAVE to be better, but, yet, I thought (and was wrong) that certain days, like Saturday, would be WAY worse. That false belief kept me drinking for years. I thought (with a brain addicted to happy hour) that my designated “drinking times” would feel like a kind of torture that I wasn’t cut out to endure.
Drinking Diaries: the Changing of the Guards.
I swear it was like we hadn’t talked. Hadn’t agreed on a specific plan, strategy, arrangement for the night. I was clear and direct with the guard (about only having a couple or not drinking at all) but for some reason my wishes were not carried out. I realized that there was a changing of the guard. From 6am-6pm there was one way of thinking. Okay, I said, “don’t let more than one or two pass the threshold and lock the gate at 11pm”. The guard assured me, took notes, informed the others on shift that this was not to be ignored.
Drinking Diaries: I am a hoarder
As in, I stash, collect, store, pack-rat and acquire more than I can use at any one time. This is apparently an effort to have “enough” when there isn’t some available. Figures, since I was raised in the Depression. As in, my mom was depressed. She was a sad women, and blamed it on being “without enough money to have all the happiness money can buy,” (she believed it). She made sure we knew there wasn’t enough to go around, we had to ration.
I lost my drink.
You know that moment when you realize you put your wine glass down some damn where on your way around the cocktail party and now it’s gone? When normal people lose their drink it takes someone who cares more about their drinking then they do to notice (i.e. “me”) to their “Oh, I must have put it somewhere, at some point” response. Inside I am hating their non-alcoholic attitude about this absolutely necessary beverage that should be handcuffed to them like mine apparently is.
Drinking Diaries: Looks
Early on, I knew that looks mattered. My mom was told to stay thin during the post baby-having era or she would be left. I saw her eating the discarded pbj crusts standing in the kitchen once or twice. she never sat and ate, her meal was just what was left behind on the cutting board. Be thin or alone. I heard that loud and clear. I started jogging for thin when I was 8. I would eat candy and go for a “balance the calories” jog as payment. I was 8. I would keep a calorie journal in manuscript, since I didn’t know cursive yet, I was 8. i wished i was thinner when i was 8. then puberty.
I Was Wrong
So many things I believed about myself, turns out I was completely wrong. I BELIEVED These as facts for the past 20 years.