Photo by Sally Blood
Jingled. Antifogmatic. Crapulous. Nippitaty.
Clearly I went through the thesaurus looking for synonyms for “drunk.” Back in 2012, that’s not only how I was, it was who I was.
Five years ago, I was stuck in a whirlwind of alcoholic madness. On my last night of drinking, I went to a Super Bowl party of one. No buffalo wings. No pizza. No chips and dips. No food to speak of. Just me, my TV, and three six-packs of Hoegaarden. I think I was already drunk before the coin flip.
The Super Bowl is the perfect excuse to get blitzed. For one thing, the game is packed with commercials for beer and liquor, so there’s ample positive reinforcement. In fact, aside from New Year’s Eve, the Super Bowl is the only “holiday” where it’s socially acceptable to be inebriated.
At the height of my alcoholism, I was crapulous 10 hours out of the day. When I wasn’t knocking back a beer or bottle of wine, I was sleeping or catatonically binge-drinking coffee while watching copious amounts of MSNBC. Nothing to eat save for the occasional peanut butter and jelly sandwich, if I wasn’t too lazy to make one.
This week marks my fifth year of sobriety. Five years! That’s more than college. Now I no longer have a 12-beer-a-day minimum habit, a verbally abusive boyfriend, or a crumby relationship with my family.
But today, I’ll be honest, I am not exactly happy. I, like many of my readers, have a dual diagnosis. There’s a reason I’ve been so quiet these days. I’m bipolar and I am crawling out of a deep depression right now, exacerbated by the darkness of winter and the lack of sunlight. And to top it all off… Trump is president!
But I know it gets better. It always does. It’s also better than being stuck in the shithole of alcoholic lunacy that took over my life. That was like double depression.
Five years later, I have several reasons to be happy…
I don’t crave alcohol anymore. In fact, the smell of it bothers me.
A photographer shot me this past weekend for a feature in the spring issue of BP Hope, better known as Bipolar Magazine.
I have become a little bit internet famous. (Thank you to all my supporters out there!)
I’m about to start dating again. That part’s been a challenge since I moved to Andersonville, a very gay neighborhood where everyone is not only already coupled up but also settled down. The neighborhood is filled with unique shops and restaurants, most located on a boulevard that feels like Main Street USA. Someone at a recent party I went to joked, “So you’re moving to the suburbs!”
I’ve created a home here, with family photos and pop art on the walls. Mid-century modern furniture I love. Cherished art books on a bookshelf. My own personal office.
When I look upon the last five years, I’ve accomplished a lot. I wrote a book and landed an agent to sell it. I’ve developed a fantastic relationship with my seven-year-old nephew. We play video games together and I make mixtapes for him, teaching him about music. Everyone around me is beyond supportive. And therapy is going swimmingly.
I know I will never drink again. I don’t want to. It feels like it would be gross to me. The taste would be vile.
Today I am grateful for music – one of my biggest coping mechanisms. But above all, I’m grateful for my family and friends.
Five years down. A lifetime to go. Bring it on.
