Checking in. I’ve had a troubled relationship with alcohol since the beginning. Started drinking occasionally in college, regularly at 21, then heavily between 23 and 25. My heavy drinking years were rock bottom. Went from good looking, muscular, and healthy, to depressed, anxious, balding, skinny fat shut in after a year. 4-5 drinks minimum on weekdays and god knows how many on weekends.
At 25, I met my oneitis and reduced my consumption considerably, but still a troubled relationship. Shaved my sad hair, bulked up, started running again, and hiking on weekends. Ditched my most toxic friendships. However, all along, I still drank too much far too often. Longest stretch without booze was two months and that ended in a comfortable night at a buddies house watching the ball game.
I was recently diagnosed with anxiety disorder and OCD and I’ve learned that my drinking, heavy and usually alone, is my way of self medicating. Despite significant incremental progress the past 3 years, I need to accept that despite being largely functional, I can’t drink at all; the risk of me slipping down the slippery slope is too great for me to continue. I’ve lost too much to drinking and had too many days where death seems a preferable alternative to hangover anxiety. All of the worst moments of my life since 18 are because I chose to drink.
I’m scared moving forward because I’ve been in this position too many times before. Day 2, where the memories of how destructive my drinking is are still fresh and my body is snapping back to wellness after a clean diet, plenty of sleep, and great session in the gym. However, if history proves to be too much to overcome, sometime by day 7, 21, 28, or 90, a seemingly benign lunch with a friend or day at my parents cabin will find me drinking yet another drink.
I’m hoping I find the strength to keep with it this time. It’s funny because last Sunday, I drank 5 IPAs alone before 3 pm. I stopped them, and by Wednesday of last week after a wonderful nights sleep, I wondered why I tortured myself when not drinking felt that good. Then Friday night at the gym rolled around, ran into some high school buddies on the way out who were grabbing a round. Of course, I joined them. 4 hours later, I’m smashed, in a bar on the wrong side of town, the HS buddy is out in the backseat of car in the parking lot with a married woman, and I’m listening to some bar floozie wax nostalgic for her deadbeat ex. Luckily, I only drank that night and I went home alone, but upon waking up to my worst hangover in years, the shame of the company I kept the night before made me want to vomit.
So here I am at day 2... I’ve changed gyms and I’m planning a camping trip for next weekend to keep me away from temptation. History has proven I’ll probably fail again at some point, but I figure a life marked by tragic failure of trying and failing is better than the complete hell I experienced at rock bottom.
Good luck everyone, I know I’ll need it.