Past the Tipping Point
June 23rd, 2008 by Honey
When I drank regularly, my cocktail of choice was an ice cold Jack and Coke. I savored the burning sensation in my mouth and throat when I took my first swallow. I looked forward to the moment I reached sweet, numb bliss. I rarely drank too much, and only one occasion comes to mind on which I made obviously bad decisions as a result of my inebriation.
I was on a short business trip a few years ago. After I had attended all required meetings, I headed into the city to seek out an adventure. I started drinking in the park, before the sun went down - miniature bottles of Jack Daniels poured inconspicuously into a plastic bottle of Coke. Eventually, I headed to the bar.
The bar is a blur of lesbian drama, karaoke, a lot more drinking, and general drunken, jovial activity. Before the bar closed, when I realized that I was past the tipping point, I made a barely conscious decision to get back to my hotel.
I was in the subway at 2:30 in the morning, blasted out of my mind. I was unable to focus on anything long enough to figure out what line to catch or which direction to proceed. By some miracle, I was not alone. A young man, himself down on his luck, helped me board the train I needed and identified my stop.
In retrospect, and even at the time, I realized how unbelievably lucky I was that a perfect stranger in a cold, cruel city, in the middle of the night, was willing to help me. I felt like such an idiot, to have put myself in such a dangerous situation. I never wanted to do that again.
There was never anything very fun about drinking in public for me. I was so intent on appearing sober that I never reaped the benefits of suppressed inhibition. If anything, drinking around other people made me irritable, jealous, and generally cranky. I was not a lot of fun to be around.
It wasn’t long after my lucky trip before I decided to quit drinking. I realized that it just wasn’t doing anything for me and I was tired of hating everything and everyone the morning after an all too frequent bender.
I quit cold turkey, stayed away from bars, and tried not to feel resentful of my buddies drinking in the park. I was real jealous, though, and wanted so badly to do what all my friends were doing. I wished that I could find friends who didn’t drink, so I could have someone to talk with about how much I was struggling, but no one came along. And so I weathered the storm with my patient, compassionate girlfriend at my side.
There was a bump in the road this last winter in Portland, which only served to strengthen my resolve against the temptation to escape again into the bottle. Although Portland’s culture is drenched in beer and the bar scene, I’ve met so many people who don’t revolve their lives around drinking that I’m beginning to feel like a normal person again.
I don’t think it will ever be easy. I will always miss the expectation of disorientation, the comradery of sharing a drink together, the hardcore trouble-making of being wasted in the afternoon. I will never escape the images of what I thought drinking was supposed to do for me and how it let me down. I will always be in a state of resistance, day in and day out, for the rest of my life.
