The first step isn’t to admit I have a problem. I don’t. Before I stopped drinking, there was rarely anything to drink in the house apart from birthday whisky and the occasional six-pack.
This isn’t my act of defiance. I didn’t stop drinking to stand out or be peculiar. The looks from servers when I pass on a cocktail are easy enough to translate. I’m not trying to be difficult, I want to tell them. I’m not going to be a cheap tipper.
Reactions from the few people I’ve told have been hard enough to address. No, I’m not going to stop going out. What do you mean “will I still be fun?” (Am I not fun when I don’t drink?)
This isn’t my act of compliance. Sure, I’m not supposed to drink on my medications. Wine and Effexor/Depakote/Klonopin makes for sleepiness, dizziness, and impaired judgement. Depression already makes me tired, mania screws with my thinking, and I’m lucky enough to have inherited my mother’s knack for vertigo. Apparently, Adderall could make me feel less drunk, but that could mature into alcohol poisoning, so I’ll pass.
In any case, I used to drink on my meds.
A liquid depressant can dull mania, but it’s too easy to push past the midline of normal and fall into straight depression, and I don’t need anything to exacerbate the ADHD I just got under control. On the other hand, anxiety and post-traumatic triggers can be easily put to bed with a pint…
About a month ago, I went to a beer fest with my partner, my best friend, her boyfriend, and his friends. It was one of those gorgeous afternoons that blended into night while we argued over whether or not it was too soon to hit up the food truck. We staked out a barrel to hover around because all the tables were taken, and I bonded with the new girls over tattoo stories and proposal stories and other stories I’ve since forgotten.