Four Years Without Alcohol. Part 1. “Origins”
Part 1 “Origins”.
On July 3, 2024, I will turn 39 years old. I spent 21 of those years drinking.
It’s hard to believe, but I haven’t had a drink for four years now. Especially hard for those who have known me for a long time. And even harder to believe for those who said it was “impossible.”
But I love when people tell me that something is impossible for me or that I am not capable of doing something. Oddly enough, it’s often close people who say this. Or “close” people. But I’m made in such a way that “impossible” becomes a challenge for me, a step, a springboard.
There are few things more satisfying than proving the opposite to myself. Moreover, if it can make someone else think deeply about what they said.
To be frank, for me, it feels like I never drank at all. Now. But…
I drank long, much, and often. Alcohol was an integral part of my life.
“—They say you suffer from alcoholism?
— Bullshit! I enjoy it!” — I used to joke to myself.
And for some time, I truly enjoyed it. A long time.
Or thought I enjoyed it.
Or convinced myself I enjoyed it…
To understand the problem, you need to find its roots. The first part of my story is dedicated to the origins of the problem called “alcoholism.”
The first time I tried alcohol was in early childhood from my parents’ shot glass during yet another feast, which were plentiful in our house. It’s quite normal practice even now to give a drop of vodka, cognac, or whiskey to a child aged 3–4–5–6 years old. Well, we even let our daughters try from our glasses. Just like normal people.
In the minds of some experimenters, such a step should serve as a scare tactic, supposing the child will dislike the sharp and burning taste from an early age, turning them away forever. For others, it’s a funny joke, and indeed, it’s very funny to watch a little human wince from the alcohol burning their delicate mucous membranes. A third type of parents thinks this way can develop tolerance to alcohol, which might help them drink more in the future without harm to their health. For the fourth, it’s a kind of initiation into the grand family affair. And, of course, simple curiosity, both of the child and the parents.
I believe and know that my parents meant well when they gave me those first drops, whatever their reasons. But I think it was curiosity, perhaps even a desire for knowledge, that led me to alcohol.
Later. On my own.
After all, it’s a forbidden fruit, consumed so frequently and in such quantities by adults. There had to be something about it that kept them consuming it, no matter what happens.
And quite a lot happened in our family, I must say…
It’s important to emphasize that alcoholism is not a vice, not a bad habit, not a way to kill time. It’s an ailment. Severe and deadly. So, regardless of everything, alcohol literally flowed in our house like a stream over the years. And not just on festive occasions. Different situations arose on this ground, and they also had different outcomes. Not always pleasant. Accidents, quarrels, fights, divorces, illnesses, deaths.
As a child, seeing all the ‘delights’ of this phenomenon should have been enough to keep me from getting closer to the spirits. But apparently, that’s how our bodies and psyches are structured. As the saying goes, ‘children see, children do.’ Being determines consciousness.
My first real personal booze-up occurred when I was 13. All it took was a couple of friends from quite prosperous families with money for booze and snacks, and one friend from a completely unfortunate family, which allowed using an entire apartment where he lived. His family was so poor that the guy’s nickname was “Tramp.” Things were so bad that he didn’t even argue with it.
We even had a reason. Ironically, it was some sort of church holiday, or its eve. I distinctly remember that the next day we had to go to the cemetery to do what? That’s right, orthodox Christians also drink at cemeteries, as if with the deceased. They even leave a shot with bread for their departed… that’s how important booze is in our lives, that even after death, you’ll get a pour.
So technically, the first time in my life I got drunk was at thirteen years old in honor of a church holiday in the Tramp’s den.
We managed pretty quickly. Moreover, we needed to return home at a certain time. On the way home, my friend (not the Tramp) and I tried to gauge our level of intoxication. And of course, by assuring each other, we were both clear as glass. Speech, however, left much to be desired, but we could just stay silent. Breathing on parents was also completely unnecessary. In my case, there was also the bonus of my mom and stepfather going to an event. So, I could easily slip past my grandmother and go to bed.
But my parents hadn’t left yet when I returned. I was even unlucky enough to open the door to the house and run into my stepfather right at the exit from the apartment. He was just putting on his shoes. I gathered all the remaining motor skills together, held my breath, and switched to mute mode.
But my gait gave me away. As I walked down our 100 feet hallway, I received instructions regarding the hanging of laundered clothes. And at the same time, revealed my level of drunkness.
My stepfather immediately suspected something and followed me.
— Are you drunk?
— Of course not. — silently, but absolutely confidently, I shook my head from side to side.
However, this answer didn’t convince him. To prove my sobriety and awareness, I started on the task assigned to me. It turned out that hanging clothes on a foldable dryer and securing them with clothespins was quite a challenging task. In my case, even barely possible. I remember a pink, faded plastic clothespin with an oxidized spring, which fell to the floor three times.
My third bend to pick it up was fatal, and I, without straightening up, went on all fours to the toilet to vomit out everything that had gone into me at the Tramp’s den. Naturally, in the eyes of my, to put it mildly, stunned stepfather.
— So you were drinking! — he exclaimed without a shadow of doubt.
— No, not at all! — I still insisted from the toilet without a shadow of doubt.
As soon as I pulled my head out of there, it got a good smack. Not for the drinking. But for lying. Well deserved.
How bad I felt in the morning. My head was splitting from pain, and my soul from shame. After a march of shame around the apartment, I even went with my father to the cemetery “to cure the hangover.” That’s exactly the joking proposal my father greeted me with in the car.
This was my first and last time!!! No booze!
Well. It could have been my first and last time. But it wasn’t.
Such “last” times I had yet to face a great many…
End of part one.
