The Other Side of the Story - A Tandem Post with Damomma

DaMomma and One Crafty Mother are writing a tandem post. It is a story about alcoholism and denial, about the protection of children and the meaning of friendship. The story begins here, with Liz, Part One, then continues with my perspective, below.  

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Karin surprised me with her call.   I didn't remember the conversation we had the night before.   If I had, I wouldn't have picked up the phone.   I knew she was testing the waters, trying to figure out how much, if anything, I remembered of our conversation the previous night.

I tried to make light of it, laugh my way through.   She didn’t buy it. "You were pretty drunk last night," she said.

I mumbled some responses - mini-apologies, loose explanations: things are just hard right now, I'm adjusting to the new job, I'm not sleeping, I haven't been feeling well, I'm going to go to meetings.  She was silent, and before she could respond I concocted an excuse and hung up.

I remember that I felt unburdened.   The worst had happened - my good friend called me on my drinking - and I got through it. I admitted drinking is a problem and that I'm doing something about it.   I could no longer distinguish truth from lies, because I believed what I told myself: I just need to do this my way.   I know drinking is a problem, and I'll get a handle on it. I will control my drinking so I don't have to stop completely.   I believed that I would be okay, that I would learn to drink like a normal person.   I had to believe this, because the thought of life without drinking was too terrifying to contemplate.   I thought I just needed more time.

I resolved to be more careful. No more phone calls after I've been drinking, I told myself.   I came up with a plan to admit a little bit, feed people just enough information to get them off my back.

I tried not to answer the phone.  On the odd occasion I would connect with someone, I pretended I was busy, when in fact I was alternating trips to the liquor store with naps. Steve was doing the drop-offs and pick-ups for the kids each day, part of my new work from home schedule. I spent my days scrabbling to hold things together - getting the kids up and ready for school, doing just enough to squeak by on my job, and then tucking the kids into bed at night. I thought I was doing a pretty good job. I was never exactly sober, but I tried not to get too drunk. I was pleased to be left to my own resources during the day - no kids to look after - so I could maintain my drinking.

Then things start to change, slip.   I realized that once I had one drink I couldn't predict what would happen. Some nights I would only have a few drinks and I would get drunk.   Other nights I drank and drank and couldn't get to the point of sweet oblivion I so craved. I broke my promise and called people at night, embarrassed myself. More and more I couldn't remember things from the night before.  I started scrawling down reminders to myself: remember Michelle called, you talked for an hour. Just chatted, nothing serious. Sometimes I couldn't read my drunken handwriting the next day.  

I felt a vague sense of panic, but not about my drinking.   I was terrified that I wasn't hiding it well enough.

There are lots of conversations I don't remember well, or at all.    But one conversation stands out in my mind. It was after a particularly bad fight with Steve.   He had found yet another hidden bottle, knew I had been drinking, and left with the kids. I called Liz, sobbing, my hands shaking.   

I was desperate for friendship, sympathy, a human connection.   I told her I thought Steve and I weren't going to make it. I told her we were fighting more and more.   "You have some tough choices to make," she said.   I remember thinking: tell her. Just tell her. Tell her Steve left because you can't stop drinking.  

I was too afraid.   I knew she would tell me I had to stop, so instead I told little bits of the truth, enough to feel validation, love.   It was one of those rare moments when I saw myself as I really was: drunk, addicted and scared. But not scared enough to tell the truth.

The fear of life without alcohol trumped everything.


For Part Two of the Tandem Posts, click here.