Part 1: The Problem

"Pull over I'm going to throw up! Now!" I screamed at my fiance as I clutched for the door handle of his Toyota Highlander. He panicked and yelled that he couldn’t. Nausea moved from the pit of my belly up in waves to my throat.

He pulled over to the gravelly part of the freeway near the off ramp. The brakes screeched and the flashers blinked as the champagne I’d chugged twenty minutes before bubbled up and out of me onto the road.

We were newly engaged. Enamored with each other. And there I was puking my guts out.

We had just left my younger brother’s wedding. I had insisted on giving a toast. I didn't drink anything until after my speech, but after I finished, you couldn't get me away from the bar. I honed in on my mission of getting drunk.

I deserved to let down, I told myself. I nailed my speech. I fulfilled my bridesmaid duties.

For the rest of the evening, I snuck additional gin and tonics or rum and cokes while my fiance was in the bathroom. I asked him to get me another drink. I asked my mom to refill my wine. I took generous sips of all of their drinks.

At the end of the night, after the dancing and the sendoff, I went to collect my curling wand, makeup, and lounge wear from the dressing room and found a 3/4 full bottle of champagne. I looked around. Listened to make sure I was alone. And then guzzled as much as I could. I knew my parents and fiance were waiting for me to collect centerpieces and check in with the coordinator and resort staff. I chugged the bubbly liquid until my stomach expanded like a balloon. I paused, took a breath, stretched up my arms and drank some more. There was still champagne in the bottle, but I knew I needed to get back.

A warm fuzzy feeling enveloped me as I walked out to the car to go to the Airbnb we were sharing with my parents, my aunt, and my cousin. 

I felt fine, great actually, on top of the world until we were about 5 minutes into the drive and going 70 mph on the freeway.

***

They came home to find me passed out. The two parents walked in from their date night and I’m guessing the mood shifted before the door even closed behind them.  I was unconscious. Their toddler was crying. I remember none of it to this day.

I woke up the next morning. Only in my bra and underwear, but in my own bed with a pounding headache and sickening fear. My roommate was hovering over me, asking what I remembered. I remembered drinking a beer on my friend's rooftop earlier in the day. I remembered going to my neighbor’s house to babysit their toddler son. I did not know how I got home. I did not remember being checked out by their EMT friend who said it seemed like I had been drinking, although no one could find any alcohol. They didn't take me to the ER. They thought I could sleep it off. If they had sought medical help, they would have found alcohol in my bloodstream. More than just the one beer. But they didn't.

If they had unscrewed my water bottle they would have been assaulted with the stench of whiskey. But I found my water bottle on my bedside table, still filled with the whiskey I had stolen from their liquor stash above the refrigerator and sipped while I watched their son. No one had thought to check my water bottle. After my roommate explained the events of the previous night to me and I could tell they had no real proof, I began my deception, my denial.

“What? That is so strange. I had a beer earlier with my friend, but I don't know what could explain this. I just started a new medication. Maybe this is a weird reaction. Maybe something else is wrong. It doesn't make sense.”

I messaged my doctor and recounted the same lies.

“Yes, it may be an interaction with your new medication,” she said. “But I would like you to get checked out just in case.”

This should have been my rock bottom. My come-to-Jesus moment. But it wasn't. I clothed myself in so many lies that I began to believe it myself.

The next day I went through the rigmarole of getting an EEG where they put a strange shower cap on you and hook you up to a bunch of wires to measure brain activity. To check for seizures.

I remember waiting for my results with baited breath. Thinking that maybe I did have a seizure after all.  

***

Alcohol is everywhere in our culture: happy hours, craft beers and cocktails, wine o’clock and now quarantinis. 

I knew I had a problem long before I was willing to let it go. I liked the secrecy, as awful as it sounds. Somehow I always seemed to convince myself that I deserved to drink (not even so much that I needed to). It was a way to let go of my tightly wound sense of guilt and responsibility. 

I also liked belonging.  I didn’t want to be left out of brewery grand openings or wine nights with my girlfriends. I thought I couldn’t have a social life without alcohol. 

I didn’t drink every day. I had stopped drinking for days, weeks, months at a time over the years. Surely, I didn’t need to be completely sober: only bonafide alcoholics had to give it all up, and that wasn’t me. 

If I could just figure out how to drink responsibly.

If I could just find some magic formula where one drink with friends didn’t turn into a night of drinking alone.

If I could just learn moderation. 

If I could just….

***

Pregnancy helped me realize that I didn’t need alcohol to have a social life. No one bats an eye when you wave off a drink when your belly is as big as a basketball. 

But after my son was born I slipped back into “If I could just” territory. 

If I could just keep my drinking undetected and under control, I would be okay. My son would be okay. 

My son rolled off the couch when he was 4 weeks old. One month! They’re not supposed to be able to roll yet! 

I had done it dozens of times before: nestled him between the couch cushions while I got up to grab a coffee, a clean diaper, or, on this occasion, another shot of my husband’s alcohol. I can't remember if it was the small batch craft gin or whiskey, but as my baby rolled to the floor, my stomach dropped with him. 

He screamed; I screamed. I called my mom to ask if I needed to take him to the doctor. I couldn’t see any bumps or bruising, his crying calmed as I rocked and shushed him. I’d dodged a bullet yet again. 

***

This is Part 1 of a 4-Part series chronicling my journey with alcohol. I'll be sharing Part 2: Cold Turkey next week.