Left to her own vices

Drinking has been my avocation for years. Most of my life I’ve been able to keep it a sideline. I don’t remember my first drink, although I do remember the first time I got drunk. I was 15, and the beverage of choice was Double Jack “wine” behind Larry’s confectionery in Regina. In high school my friends and I drank on weekends, and at around 17 I started sneaking into bars. But booze didn’t play a huge role in my life; it was present but I didn’t crave it.

There have been three distinct periods when drinking morphed from entertainment to more of a calling. The first was my first two years of college living in residence. This requires no explanation. The second period was for about three years in my twenties when I was working as a social worker in child welfare, a job for which I was so ill suited I looked to alcohol to mitigate the anxiety. I was also lonely; booze was supposed to fill the hole but it was a lousy stand-in for love and companionship. And lastly, when my older daughter hit 14 and began acting out in a multitude of ways. This is when I had the crazy notion that I deserved a drink.

A family legacy

I recall that my own mother began drinking significantly more when my two sisters and I hit adolescence — as a teen, I certainly gave her enough anxious moments. Her drinking took off from there after her marriage to my dad ended. And her own dad was an alcoholic, or at the very least a problem drinker. Alcohol? It was hands-down my drug of choice, as it had been for those who came before me.

In my forties, I started giving myself permission to drink under conditions I never had before. It crept up on me…. I had a glass of wine at lunches out whether my companion did or not. I had one resting on the vanity as I got ready to go out for the evening. I’d have a couple of glasses of wine with my husband, Terry, at supper, then tip back another good-sized glass while he was out walking the dog. I was head over heels for the wine that continued into the night at a dinner party, the bottle resting on the table, the conversation flowing as well. And then I’d think, How about one more splash after the guests leave as I do the dishes? My drinking became more concerted than ever as I thought about how I could summon that next one into being.

Without the structure of an office job, and with fewer physical demands from kids as they got older, I found alcohol consumption as seductive as a high school boyfriend. Then came my eldest’s turbulent adolescence — failing grades, rages, an accidental fire during a party held in our absence. Liquor became my liquid escape; it took the hard corners off constant anxiety, warming me in its embrace. I loved the feel of a chilled champagne flute in my hand, filled to the top. It whispered to me: “I’ll take you away for the next few hours.” And I loved the glug-glug sound coming from the dewy bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, the clink of the glasses, the promise of a buzz.

And let’s face it, in my social circle and family, wine — if not exactly the social glue that bonds us — is a social lubricant. It’s not like my behaviour was unacceptable even if I did occasionally get hammered. This is how adults have fun, right?

That was my attitude until just under a year ago, when I awoke to a hangover while on a summer holiday in the Okanagan — quite appropriately in beautiful wine country. I wasn’t suffering from the piercing headache that’s often part of the package with overindulgence and easily treated with Advil; instead, I woke to the genesis of that profound fatigue that clouds a day and worsens by the hour. Sleep disruption is pretty common for women over 40 anyway, and a couple of glasses of white wine (fill in your beverage of choice) too many can seriously interrupt the shut-eye required to feel rested the next day. This was the part I hated the most.

The hangover to end all hangovers

About a week before my Okanagan hangover, I turned 50. I wanted it to be a banner year, although I hadn’t thought through exactly what this meant. I had been advertising to friends and family that I planned to celebrate all year — the official kick-off was the Calgary Stampede in early July — and to please feel free to take me out for lunch or buy me a gift. In the back of my mind I thought this would include lots of wine consumption enjoyed with impunity, as I honoured five decades on the planet.

But on that summer morning, despite my foggy brain, my thinking shifted. Here I was on holiday with my family and extended family — a revered tradition — in this beautiful place, and I was feeling lousy, just wanting to get through the day. Add to that Terry’s recent comment that I had, of late, developed a habit of having that additional drink, pushing me into the obviously impaired zone.

My August birthday closely precedes that new-notebook, sharpened-pencil time of year — a spark for new projects or a resumption of those left incomplete. Fall feels wide with possibility. I thought, why not get this part of my life under control? It sure wouldn’t hurt to be a better role model for my 16- and 19-year-old daughters, illustrating that life can be enjoyed sober.

As serendipity would have it, shortly after our summer sojourn, our close friends Robin and Cal invited Terry and me for a birthday celebration in my honour. I told Robin I was abstaining from drink. She leapt up, raced into her bedroom and retrieved Responsible Drinking: A Moderation Management Approach for Problem Drinkers. We had a great night, not at all diminished for me by abstinence. I loved it when, as I was cracking up at one of my own jokes, Cal said, “You certainly don’t seem to act any differently not drinking.”

The Thirty

I devoured Responsible Drinking that night when I got home. The book suggested a 30-day abstinence period referred to as “The Thirty.” It even sounded kind of jazzy: “I’m doin’ a Thirty.” The point is to be in control — contrary to the belief that problem drinkers are powerless over alcohol — to assess your drinking unclouded by, well, drinking, to rediscover how good life can be without booze as medication. Some people will decide after The Thirty that abstinence is the only way for them, while others will be successful in moderation. I confess to trying to moderate in the past, but it was always in the form of “I’ll cut back” with no sense of what that meant, no plan in place. Now I made it a priority.

I began my Thirty.

Day 14 I was finding abstinence relatively easy until I met a friend at an art exhibit where the wine was lined up in straight rows, the glasses winking at me from the linen tablecloth. When I asked for soda water instead, my friend demanded immediately: “What’s up with that?”

Day 15 The very next night, I was at a monthly writers’ event — same people — downing a mocktail of some sort. Again the questions. I’m starting to get the picture: People who know me are used to seeing a drink in my hand.

Day 22 Terry and I went for a quick bite before a play. I hemmed and hawed over my beverage choices. Terry: “It’s complicated deciding what to have when you’re not drinking.” I let his comment go, as I was too embarrassed to explain that it was really the opposite. Compared to the mental energy I used to spend on wondering whether I could fit in two drinks now, whether we could also have one at the play or would that look like too much, and whether we’d have another after —choosing between a soft drink and coffee was actually pretty easy.

Day 23 My toughest test came after an eight-hour drive to Regina to surprise a good friend at her 50th birthday party. As she hugged me and said how happy she was I had come, I poured her a glass of wine, guests swarming around the dining room table-cum-bar. Maybe just one…. Nope, it’s only Day 23. I had a blast anyway. There were a few heads throbbing in the morning, but thankfully not mine; I felt amazing. But I vowed not to become self-righteous, I’ve had my share. I didn’t have a drink for the rest of my five-day getaway.

Day 32 I share a bottle of wine with Robin at a restaurant. It chills in a bucket beside us. I pay lots of attention to the aesthetics; I sip really slowly. Later we are off to a movie but we’re early, cooling our heels in a lounge next door, so I’m on to soda water.

I can’t lie — I’m happy to have wine back in my life, but during my Thirty I had lots of time to draw up some guidelines. Wine and I are going to be on limited terms. My new rules include the following: no drinks at lunch; never let my glass be filled if it’s not empty and I can’t figure out the amount being consumed; and indulge only three days of the week at most, preferably not in a row. My absolute limit is three glasses in an evening.

What has become clear from my Thirty is that the benefits of drinking quickly deteriorate when you have more than one drink an hour for two or three hours. I’ve forgotten this a couple of times now, having had three in an evening and not allowing enough time in between. This is still too much to feel okay the next day.

The truth about drinking

My Thirty wasn’t a breeze, but neither was it as tough as I’d anticipated. To say I’m an extrovert is an understatement, but still — as with most people — I’m always a little uncomfortable upon entering a social event. But now, as I ride that initial wave of anxiety at parties, I find myself on the other side of the urge with a lightness that comes from not being even slightly altered, from being present in the situation.

The intimacy I thought was spawned by drinking is really a big delusion. Before, I would lose track of the conversation, repeat myself, give up confidences I shouldn’t have, insist on being right. Intimacy comes from being much more available to loved ones than is possible after swilling a few too many. Big delusion number two is that booze creates a bridge leading away from your problems. The truth is they are quite happy to greet you in the morning when you feel shitty, less able to deal with them.

I know I will find my new guidelines hard to adhere to at times, but I love the comfort of knowing I can do my Thirty again. I carry this possibility around with me like a shiny jewel tucked in my pocket.

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This article originally appeared in the May 2008 issue of More