Sixty Days without Alcohol

A few months ago, I would have said that this is my kind of wineglass.

As of today, I have lived sixty days without alcohol. It feels like six years. Just two months ago, I was drinking wine every night and sometimes vodka, too. Towards the end, I was pouring very generous glasses of wine and this glass would have been perfect.

Although I doubt I could have hidden it from my husband or my family. Because at the end, that's what you're doing. Hiding how much you're drinking. Making sure there's enough alcohol in the house to last the weekend.

I live in a county that has "Blue" laws. You can't buy any type of alcohol on Sunday. So that means on Friday or Saturday you have to be sure and get your supply. If you do this then it probably means you have a problem, too.

This was one of the little things that nagged at me. That tiny thought at the back of my mind that kept intruding and ruining some of the pleasure of drinking.

Do I miss it? Yes, I have to say that I do miss it and think about it. Especially in the evening. It would be so lovely to settle down with a roaring fire and a glass of wine. That's when I have to remind myself that it would never be one glass. It would be four or five. Even though I know alcohol is poison for me, I still want it. That's sick, isn't it?

That's where taking one day at a time comes into play.

First Drinks in College

I didn't start drinking until I went away to college at the age of seventeen. The drinking age in New York state was eighteen but it didn't stop me. I turned 18 three weeks after I started my freshmen year.

At that time, four years of college seemed like an eon (translation: graduation was a long ways away). I skipped most of my classes and went full swing into party mode.

I was the oldest of nine children from a good Catholic family. Naturally I couldn't wait to be "on my own" at college. Several of the people who were roommates and friends I'm still in touch with today. And some of them have had their own problems with alcohol. And drugs. We were from the "Make love not war" generation.

I was too innocent and too scared to latch onto the the "free love" mantra but I loved alcohol. For at least six months, I had the proverbial "hollow leg". I could drink a lot and never have a hangover. Alcohol made me feel happy. And silly. And less uptight.

I went home for Christmas break and my report card came in. My cumulative average was 1.6. Yeah. My surprised and enraged father just about knocked me into the middle of next week. I went back to college knowing I had to buckle down and stop partying. Well, at least buckle down.

And I did. The next semester I had a cum of 3.0. But the partying didn't stop. I was still having a love affair with alcohol.

Attack!

I've been doing fairly well on this journey of learning to live without alcohol.

I've told two of my sisters. I've told one of my two close friends. And yesterday I sent an email to the second friend to tell her. I wasn't worried abut their reaction. They were all supportive.

Tomorrow will be 7 weeks without alcohol. One week ago, I had a terrible episode.

I was at a writer's conference. A Christian Writer's conference. I haven't mentioned up to now the fact that I'm a Christian. But I am. That probably made everything worse, because along with all the condemnation I had been feeling, the thought that I was disappointing the Lord, who gave everything for me, worsened the distress.

Anyway, I went to this conference. There were almost 700 writers there. About ten percent were published, and everyone else was, as we writers say, pre-published. I'd been looking forward to this conference for months. I was a finalist in the Historical category and there was to be an Awards dinner on Saturday night.

I didn't have a roommate at the conference so I had the hotel room to myself. The thought occurred to me  several times that I could drink and no one would have to know. Except me, of course. And the Lord.

But I pushed that thought away. And went about my business. On Thursday night I had a stronger temptation to have a drink. But I didn't.

And then, Friday night, while I was in the middle of a session with about 25 other writers, listening to a publishing house rep tell us what they were looking for, I began to have some terrible overwhelming thoughts.

 I'm never going to make it. Look at all these people here who want the same thing. It's impossible. I'm not good enough.


I realized I had been staring at this woman's face and not hearing a word she had said for the last 15 minutes. All I could think of was going to the bar and getting a drink. The compulsion was so strong I could barely think about anything else. All I wanted to do was curl up in my room alone and drink a bottle of wine.

Somehow I stumbled to the Prayer Room. This is a little meeting room with low lighting and chairs, and people volunteering their time. There was one woman there, and I blurted out my story to her, including the temptation to drink. She prayed over me while tears ran down my face. Then I went to my room and my husband called - all chipper, expecting a good report. Instead he got a miserable, crying wife who barely knew which end was up. He prayed for me, too.

Then I took a long shower and went to bed. The next morning I woke up feeling 100% better. In that instant I knew it had been a spiritual attack of Satan, who had come at me with both barrels. Somehow, instead of running to alcohol, I ran to the Lord. And I was OK. Thank you, dear Lord.

What I realized from this episode was how strong the compulsion was to relieve my stress and anxiety with a bottle of wine. Again, it confirmed to me the fact that alcohol had become a lot more than a nice way to relax in the evening.

I'm starting to wonder if I should possibly share these thoughts with others who might be struggling the way I was and have been.

I'm going to think a little more about that.