Booze, Bye
Reflecting on a year without alcohol.
Last spring as I started to hit a groove in my meditation practice, I started noticing subtle yet profound changes in the rest of my life. I still had all the same challenges and was about to face a slew of new ones, yet I was starting to feel better — stronger and more grounded — in the midst of it because I was also enjoying more of my life. Choosing to be fully present increased the pleasure I experienced from even small things; colors got richer, food tasted better, affection felt sweeter. I expected that it would also make savoring a glass of good wine or beer even better, too.
So I was initially a little shocked when instead of deepening the sense of warmth and pleasure I’d always associated with alcohol, I started noticing other things instead. I’d pause to notice the bouquet of a nice red, and just smell the cloyingly sweet, sticky funk of fermentation instead. I’d take a sip and be overwhelmed by the flavor of chemical solvents. Instead of feeling relaxed, I felt off-kilter — dizzy, headachy, and anxious.
I was confused. Like a lot of folks in our culture, drinking had been a key part of my adult life. It was a way to “take the edge off” of stress at work, at home, or in life. Isn’t this supposed to be fun? Or relaxing? Or tasty? Why doesn’t this feel good anymore?
It was like a spell had been broken. I kept trying, thinking perhaps I’d just had a bad bottle, or maybe was feeling weird because I hadn’t been well-rested or hydrated or fed that day. But it didn’t make a difference. I was starting to see that I wasn’t actually enjoying drinking; when I slowed down enough to be fully present while drinking, the reality of it never matched my nostalgic expectations of it. And once I knew the difference between living in my memory and living in the moment, I couldn’t pretend otherwise even though part of me really, really wanted to.
The part of me who had found a reprieve from feelings of anxiety and not-belonging in red solo cups, tall-necked bottles and designer stemware was not happy with this discovery. What was I supposed to do on planes, or at happy hours and dinner parties and wedding receptions — be one of those presumably sad, boring people who didn’t drink? Not drinking during pregnancy was one thing; not drinking as a lifestyle choice seemed unthinkable unless things had gotten “out of control.” What would I even say to people? Would they think I was judging them if I didn’t drink when they were? Would they assume I had a Problem of some kind, had hit ‘rock bottom’ and gotten myself kicked out of the “can casually drink and still be a functional adult” club? Would I spend the rest of my social life fending off suspicion or intrusive questions about pregnancy or medications or whatever?
But as the weeks went on, those questions were replaced by different ones. Why do I feel like I need this? If I’m not enjoying this, why do I feel like it’s ‘wasteful’ not to finish the glass? Why am I spending time in places or with people I ‘need’ to drink to enjoy? Is that even enjoyment?! Why do I care what other people will think or say if I don’t drink at this event? Why do I assume any of my friends or acquaintances will even notice or give a fuck?
When I arrived at the brunch pictured above, I ordered a mimosa like I had at hundreds of other brunches. Not because I necessarily wanted it, but because it seemed like the thing to do; this was a brunch at a bachelorette weekend, and day-drinking is a thing one does during bachelorette weekends, right? I drank it and it was all right; in hindsight, the ratio of orange juice to champagne was probably higher than I previously would’ve considered acceptable.
Still, that “dizzy, headachy, anxious” feeling was coming up, and since I knew we had a night of bar-hopping ahead, I decided to stick to water for the rest of the afternoon so I could still be “fun” later. But by the time we went out for dinner and drinks, I was asking myself more new questions. If I drink more, am I going to feel better or worse? Is this worth what it’s going to cost me in money, in pain, in recovery time tomorrow (or more realistically, the next few days)?
The answers that night, and every other time I’ve faced a choice about alcohol for the past year, have been “worse” and “no.” Whether I’m having a great day or a terrible one, feeling dizzy, headachy, and anxious is never an improvement. And I’ve got too much that I have to do day-to-day, too much that I want to accomplish in my life, and too many other demands on my body, mind, and spirit to spend valuable energy, time, and money on something that doesn’t actually make me happy.
All the things I’d worried about — that I or my life would become more boring, that people would judge me, etc. — either haven’t materialized or just don’t matter. And frankly, I’ve experienced so many benefits that I don’t think I’d care even if they did. I still had a great time with my friends the rest of that weekend, and overall I enjoy my life a lot more now than I used to. My mental health is better, I have fewer headaches (and no hangovers!), and I’m more attuned to what (and whom) actually helps me relax and enjoy myself — without the painful trade-offs that come with alcohol.
I am still far from perfect, as is my life. But it just feels really good not to drink, and to be one year freer of the default assumption that alcohol is necessary to enjoy or cope with adult life. I’m really looking forward to seeing what other discoveries lay ahead in the year (years!) to come; to seeing what other spells mindfulness helps me break, and what else I’ll get to welcome into my life as a result.
