ONE BEER
Surviving addiction, one day at a time
One beer is all I need. I deserve it. I’ve been good. I haven’t had a drink in two weeks.
Just one beer. It won’t hurt anyone.
I need a drink to silence the voice in my head — my addiction — which pleads with me every second of every day to quench its thirst for alcohol. I hate that voice. It tells me I’m not enough, and I believe it.
One beer is plenty. I don’t want more.
At least, that’s the story I tell myself. It’s a familiar story.
One time, at my husband’s best friend’s wedding, I tried to pace my drinking because I didn’t want to get too drunk and embarrass my husband. I did my best. Was it my fault the wine glasses were double-sized and the bartender over-poured?
‘Course, after one drink (hell, one sip), the control I foolishly believed I had over my addiction crumbled and I found myself at home after the wedding, choking on my vomit because I’d passed out. I don’t remember this part. I never remember much of anything.
The smell of puke, stuck to my matted hair the next morning, was my first clue I’d lost control. Second and third were the chalky taste in my mouth and the Swiss knives stabbing into my head. I’d overindulged. Again.
Dammit. I’d tried. I really had.
My husband, his face riddled with fear, worry, and disappointment, detailed how he had to hold me up until I finished puking before he cleaned up hours-old wine and cake from my face, removed my rank smelling dress, and put on my pjs. After he made sure I was still breathing, he tackled the carpet. He was tired, and he stank, too, but he did what he’s done since we got married — clean up my messes. I didn’t thank him.
I never do.
That was then, though. This is now. One week later, to be exact.
Surely, I can control my drinking. I just gotta try harder. It’s a matter of willpower. If I drink one beer, and only one beer, it proves I’m okay, that I am in control, not my addiction. All I need is one more chance.
“You’ve had a million chances,” says my innermost self, the one I bury deep down, that knows, without a shadow of a doubt, I’m doing something I shouldn’t be doing. My addiction often silences my innermost self because if I listen to that voice, really listen, it just might be loud enough to silence my addiction.
But not today.
“What about that time your husband was out of town and you promised you wouldn’t drink while he was gone?” says my innermost self. “You bought a pint of whiskey and a bottle of wine, intending to sip the pint, and save the wine for when he returned home.
“An hour later, you guzzled the pint, broke open the wine, and woke up the next morning with blood on your pillow and a wicked headache. What if you’d hit your head harder? What if your husband had come home to find you dead? Don’t you care? About him? About you?”
“I don’t care about anyone, least of all myself,” I reply with conviction. “Besides, that was different. I was different. I’m stronger now.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” says my innermost self. “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”
“Blah, blah, blah.”
My addiction grins from the shadows. “I’ve won, again.”
Foolish me, I believe I’ve won too, oblivious that everyone around me loses.
Later that day, I sit at a bar in a German restaurant, drinking my one beer out of a tall, frosty boot. The beer’s a light European draft, cold and refreshing. Exactly what I need. In an instant, relief. My addiction — satisfied and sated. Subdued.
My innermost self remains silent, sad.
I have a good buzz from one beer. That buzz equates to confidence, empowerment. I’m invincible. Feelings? Can’t feel ’em. Problems? Don’t exist. If I could just stay in this place forever, life would be a-okay. If that means drinking only one beer a day to maintain this, so be it.
“You didn’t drink one beer,” says my innermost self later that evening. “The boot held two liters.”
“I thought I told you to go away,” I reply, irritated.
“You did. Your addiction said the same thing. Thing is, I’m never really gone. I wait patiently until the moment I’ll have the most influence on your choices and then I pounce.” My innermost self pauses. “You didn’t drink one beer.”
“Oh, shut up. One glass equals one beer.”
“You passed out as soon as you got home. That usually happens when you day drink, or night drink, or… drink at all.”
“Whatever. Nothing bad happened today. Okay, fine. I wet the bed, but I’ll change the sheets before my husband notices. But, hey. We didn’t argue, and I didn’t make any drunken phone calls, so there! No harm, no foul.”
“Your buzz is wearing off. In one, maybe two hours, you’ll search the house for more alcohol and guzzle the bottle until you pass out again.”
“Try to keep up. I don’t sneak drinks anymore, okay? This buzz is fine. I’ll learn to live with it. I’d rather adapt than live with no buzz. In time, I’ll learn to enjoy one beer and its high. I need that high, no matter how intense it is. Up there, no one and nothing can touch me or hurt me. I won’t crave more… more… more. You’ll see. One beer. I’ve just done it!”
My innermost self sighs. “I’m not giving up on you.”
I’m done listening. And so, I change my sheets before I call it a night, all the while fighting against the hard, cold truth my innermost self reveals. Perhaps if I was stronger, wiser, I’d admit it, but I truly believe I have my addiction handled.
Ignorance is bliss.
The next day is my one-year wedding anniversary. I can’t wait to celebrate this milestone. I don’t think about beer (or any other alcohol) today. Instead, I have a bottle of non-alcoholic sparkling cider chilling in the fridge, which I bought especially for this occasion. Mostly, to make my husband happy, but I don’t mind. I can be a good girl today. Today’s not all about me, anyway. I want to remember everything. I want to be present. I’m in control, right?
The day wears on, and my addiction whispers, “It’s your anniversary. You need champagne to celebrate the occasion properly. Otherwise, the day won’t be special.”
I consider, briefly. It makes sense. A one-year anniversary only comes but once in a lifetime. My addiction is wise, just wise.
My innermost self speaks up, “You promised your husband you wouldn’t drink today.”
“Shush. Promises were made to be broken,” I reply.
I begin the tiresome process of bargaining with my husband by promising him the sun, moon, and the stars that if he lets me drink tonight, I’ll be good the rest of the week. To sweeten the pot, I suggest buying one bottle of champagne instead of the usual two.
He’s resistant, unyielding. He’s been down this road before. It always leads to a dead end.
I’m practically on my knees, imploring him, “Please? We must celebrate with champagne or the day won’t mean anything. I went one week with no alcohol and I had one beer last night. That’s progress. Tonight’s about us. I won’t mess this up. I want to remember everything. I swear, I’ll be good. I’ll control myself.”
Eventually, he gives in — haltingly, resentfully, wearily. He wants to please me because he loves me. I’ve learned to manipulate his love, so I get what I want. Here, now, I have cemented another brick in the wall building between us, but I don’t notice, nor do I care.
A half hour later, I stand in front of the fridge, swapping out the pitiful bottle of sparkling cider for the expensive champagne I just bought. The world fades away and all that’s left is me and a green bottle. Just the way I like it.
“No,” says my addiction with an evil grin. “Just the way I like it.”
That evening, we open the champagne. The popping of the cork and hiss of bubbles, fizzing, promise a good time. I clap, dizzy with glee, salivating as my husband pours the champagne into flutes. This is what tonight’s all about.
My first sip of champagne tastes delicious, but taste is inconsequential. The relief and warmth the drink provides is like a hug from an old friend — a friend who’s slowly killing me. Do I care? No. I welcome the hug because I don’t want to feel, not even anything good. I don’t deserve love, especially not from my husband. He’s put up with so much, and I’ve given nothing in return. I had to drink tonight, to avoid being present. Being present means I’m here, alive, and I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be anywhere. I haven’t, ever since alcohol came into my life.
I started drinking at age fifteen. Blacked out the first time I drank, too. Why’d I drink? I wanted to fit in, to stand out, to have a voice. I was shy, an introvert. Introverts get left behind. They go unnoticed. People assume they have nothing to say. I had plenty to say. I just didn’t know how to say it. Enter alcohol. Instantly, I’m a shinier, larger-than-life version of myself, and people love me! I’m funny, a blast to be with. Bold. Flirtatious. Rebellious.
Eventually, though, the shine dulled. I became a burden, a responsibility, a liability, a doormat, a victim. Guilt and shame pile up inside of me, and I need more and more alcohol to survive… to live.
Fifteen years later, nothing’s changed.
I promised my husband half a bottle of champagne was all I needed to truly be happy tonight. I wanted to mean it. Truly, I did. But, now that I’ve had half a bottle, the urge for more alcohol occupies my thoughts. I twitch. I’m irritable. I can’t concentrate on anything because I’m fearful my buzz will go away.
We’re dining in a fancy restaurant. Everyone has a drink in front of them. We can’t be the only ones just drinking water. We must continue celebrating. One year! That’s huge!
We stare at another. My husband looks handsome. His wedding band sparkles in the candlelight. My new dress is too tight from alcohol bloat.
He tilts his head. I open my mouth. I have nothing to say, not without a drink. Hesitantly, I broach the subject. Just one more, I swear.
His posture slumps, and he nods. Defeated, again.
Inwardly, I cartwheel.
I order a glass of expensive whiskey, neat. Like a lady, I sip the drink through dinner, even though I really want to slam the drink and order five more. Nevertheless, I have a great buzz and my husband’s talking to me. We’re laughing now. My cheeks flush as I reach a hand to him, grateful he’s here with me. Really, I’m grateful he let me order another drink. I can’t mess this up.
I won’t mess this up.
A few days later, my resolve crumbles. I try to stick to my one beer, but after my husband falls asleep, I sneak out of the house and walk to a bar up the street. I drink martinis until I don’t remember where I am or who I am. I wake up in the emergency room. Fell down the stairs leaving the bar. I’m not hurt. Not physically, anyway. But I hurt my husband and my parents, who got the call from the hospital. Do I care? No. The IV took care of any hangover.
Score! I want another drink, bad.
My addiction smiles. “Go ahead. Have another, and another. I don’t mind. Not at all. So long as you pick up that first drink, I’m in control, just the way I like it.”
Ten years later, I finally hear my inner self loud and clear — I cannot control my addiction. It controls me. At last, I am sick and tired of being sick and tired. I am worn down, defeated. I’m a shell of a person — a ghost.
It wasn’t one incident or even years of incidents piling up like bad grades on a report card that led me to this moment. Rather, it was the desire for change. Here, now, I want to be better, to do better. I want to know what it means to live and not just be alive.
Since I can’t cure my addiction — the disease of alcoholism — I must learn how to put it remission. I do that by not picking up that first drink, no matter what. I know now that I can never have just one beer. One beer always leads to more. Yet, true sobriety feels like an impossibility.
“Not impossible,” says my Higher Power. “You have Me.”
I welcome this new voice. It’s my Higher Power, who I choose to call God. He knows what’s best for me. It is He who led me to a Twelve Step recovery program. It is He who released me from the bondage of alcohol and gifted me with a new life — a life of unimaginable joy.
Today, I am proud to say I have one year of continuous, uninterrupted sobriety. I’m choosing ME instead of my addiction. All the time and energy I put into trying to control my drinking, I now put into tending to my physical, emotional, spiritual, and mental well-being and growth.
The road to recovery wasn’t linear or smooth, but I pressed forward, following the suggestions in the Twelve Step literature. I attended ninety recovery meetings in ninety days, and I continue to attend a meeting daily. Twice daily prayers, along with my readings of the recovery literature and Jesus Calling, have replaced changing soiled sheets and walks of shame.
I have a sponsor and have worked through the Twelve Steps. I will continue to work them for the rest of my life as they are never really completed. In addition, I do service work, willingly and happily. When a recovery buddy told me “service keeps you sober” I was all in. The same fervor and zeal I gave to my drinking, I give to my sobriety because sobriety gives me something drinking never did — peace.
This past year, I learned the difference between true sobriety and being a dry drunk. Whenever I tried to quit drinking on my own, I was doing recovery myself. That’s why I always failed. Sure, I wasn’t drinking alcohol, but I remained miserable and irritable. I continued to isolate. My relationships remained fractured, and I hated myself. I refused to face the demons of my past. Instead of feeling my feelings, I ignored them, building up a lifetime of resentments against me and the world. I was treading water, going nowhere. I wanted to go somewhere, and that’s why I got sober.
Today, I’m free so long as I don’t pick up that first drink. Peace and serenity sure beat shame and despair. Instead of numbing my feelings, I feel them — the good, the bad, and the ugly. Guess what? I’m okay because feelings are temporary. They come and go.
Today, I live in the present, instead of running from the past, or fearing a future I never had control of but, being the self-centered alcoholic that I am, foolishly believed I could control, just like I thought I could control my addiction if I just tried harder.
My addiction is a part of me and it always will be, except now I have the tools to silence its voice if it ever tries to talk to me. I will reach out to my sober sisters for support or ask my Higher Power for guidance. I will read the Twelve Step literature or go to a meeting. I will not pick up that first drink, no matter what. There is nothing that can happen to me that a drink will make better.
Today, I am sober. I am alive. I am me. That is enough.
I’m enough.
I keep a bottle of sparkling cider on hand for celebrating life’s moments. Proudly, I sip it with my husband, who I’ve made amends to, and finally thanked for supporting me. Slowly, we’re dismantling the brick wall between us. Trust will come in time.
But for now, I’m content to be where I am — not up, not down, but cruising in the middle lane. Here, I’m safe. Here, I have serenity. And I’ll continue to do so as long as I accept the things I can’t change and find the courage to change the things I can.
One day at a time.
