Drinking Alone

As someone who has spent nearly a decade toeing at the edge of alcoholism like the edge of a dark lake on a summer day — waffling between desperate enough to seek sanctuary from the pressing heat, and a healthy wariness of whatever lurked in the water — I feel uniquely qualified to judge the sea of varied alcohols with at least some amount of accuracy. And these days, for many of us, alcohol is probably looking better and better. It’s called drowning your sorrow for a reason, and a lot of us are pretty flush with sorrows.

A lot of us are pretty good at drowning, too. Swallowing, wallowing, swimming in our emotional wading pools. Quite a few drinks lend themselves to the somber — red wine, gin, whiskey. I think of these bases and I think of sad, terrible poetry. I think of sitting out on the balcony and staring out at the night, thinking we aren’t so different, like some movie villain who’s really just an allegory for depression, who really needs to just take a shower and sober up.

I’ve always had a rule — one which I have never broken and don’t intend to — when it comes to alcohol: never drink alone. For many people, I know, drinking alone doesn’t spell disaster. But for someone who has a proven track record of becoming easily addicted to whichever vice lands in my lap, I’ve learned to be cautious. You can always tell who was born with caution, and who’s learned it. The ones who learned it have more scars. Not even interesting, mysterious scars. Sometimes they’re just stupid. Worst of all, sometimes they’re embarrassing, the truth of them dangling like a…