Breaking Bottles

Essay 3: Left-Hand Man

There were a series of moments that really solidified my end with booze. By that I mean the attempt that finally worked. Man, I had “quit” so many times before. None was more impactful than the afternoon at that football game. “The Bud Zone” is the essay I am most looking forward to writing in this series. No, that's the wrong way to say it. It's the story I'm most eager to share, but I'll cry when I write it. Another was a single line dropped on me…

As touched on in the first part, I saw a cognitive therapist at the end of my sojourn. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT), although I didn't appreciate that at the time. One of the most beneficial aspects of these sessions was in me documenting/journaling my drinking to share in the following one. This hadn't begun as the plan; rather, it flowed from his first proposal to me and my first framework towards quitting. I wasn't there on state command or anyone else's. I had started seeing this man of my own volition. That's critical; it’s tough for counseling to work otherwise. So in the beginning sessions he asked ME point-blank how I wanted to define stopping. What was my gameplan? Interesting approach.

It provided a sweet opening for a drunk, of course. I would craft a plan that didn't have me quitting at all! Lol although that's not fair framing to me. I came out of the gates in good-faith. Going cold turkey seemed insurmountable - I'm almost done with another of these titled “Getting lit!” that will explain a bit more why that was. But I was there for a reason, and that reason was the damage this daily poison was doing to my marriage and family and health and life.

I can't keep drinking this much, Doc.

So again, what does this look like?

Well, I need to take some days off. *makes note* I can't be waking up hung over like I do all the time. *jots down more* I know it's not good for me; I have come to Jesus moments with myself it's so obvious; but I wake up the same way tomorrow. *keeps writing*

I want you to commit to a schedule. You design the schedule; then it's your schedule and not you doing my schedule.

I like that.

But don't lie to me. Don't be dishonest about what you've drank, because then you're only wasting my time and your money. I want your agreement to that, or let's not do this.

Deal. (I really liked that! Lion shit.)

We end up with the arrangement that I will drink 3 days a week (4 alcohol free) and on days I drink, I will limit the intake to 3 drinks. That second part he imposed (first part I suggested) but I kinda felt like I needed to agree and weave it in. I had come to stop entirely, remember. This was big ground being won back the other way! Took a shit ton of pressure off my chest, to be honest. I would make this a booze-free day, but son of a bitch, I had just negotiated a cocktail for the big game tomorrow night. Three cocktails!

I'm actually going to do another of these Breaking Bottles essays around moderation. My goodness did I struggle with that concept, more than anything. That became a forging process, however, which was key in how I finally broke out. I'll expand on all of that there. The daily journaling and then talking about it (talking honestly) was a very therapeutic and constructive/beneficial process for me. But let me get to that heavy moment. In this case, it was a single line…

I had attended a block party event in my neighborhood the night before. It was one of my non-drinking nights and there was no flexibility here. I just had to not drink at the street party. Back to that quitting thing again. I knew these were the battles I'd have to fight and win. Even writing this, you can see how the addict’s mind frames things in a self-defeating way; a sense of entrapment. To anyone who hasn't struggled with addiction, this might sound bizarro. Like, just go to the block party without a drink. WTF but understand, I had never done that before. Ever. Block party meant Thurs or likely Fri/Sat night, often a big event or holiday, party and chillax time, festivities! That means have a drink. That always meant drinks. I didn't know one without the other. This is the level of hole I'm climbing out of here. We are not the same… or we are, and you get it.

So anyways, I get through this night fine, don't get me wrong. But I remember the sense of frustration. Frustration; it felt like unfairness. I'm walking around this street filled with hundreds of people. Everyone is laughing and cheery as Christmas season presents in the surroundings. And damn near every one on that street was carrying a drink. There were lots of drinks for sale and even more Yetis and slick wine glasses from home couched in strollers. My eyes are of course spotting this like a sniper, but I was struck at the level of saturation. 80% of hands, easy. And no one is staggering around drunk; no scenes being caused. We haven't a clue what goes on behind closed doors and I guarantee at least a few of those sauced-up homes went sour that night, but it was all so normal. Everything was normal there that evening… but me. Why am I the one guy here who can't have a drink? I'm stronger than that. Am I weaker than a majority of my surroundings? No way! Cue the frustration.

“Can’t”. You see, I still saw it all wrong. I wasn't being punished. I was begging for something that didn't exist. Clarity that was impossible for me to have that night. I had a fine evening with the fam, I was very glad not to be six drinks deep when I got back home at 8pm with two young kids, and I'm not sure anyone else was even aware of my internal strife. But in my entire quitting journey, that sticks out as one of my most challenging and influential moments. It wasn't walking around that night which had the big effect, it was the following morning.

I went into my session the next day around 11. We had our routine. I'd do my lobby thing, he'd come greet and take me back, we'd shoot pleasantries, then he'd ask how I've been doing, and that’s when I'd typically share my receipts of the last few days. Boy, I was ready this time! I remember the conversation vividly and can picture that day in his office right now. I was bitchy. And I'm never a bitchy person. I told the same story I just told you above. I'm sure it landed heavier live. I noticed he wasn't taking notes as usual. He didn't say a word. Just let me go. When I was done he commented that he hadn't seen me present this frustrated before. I was actually cognizant of that. I felt hot. I was legit ruffled by this feeling from the night before. (I was beginning to accept my battle.) After a long pause he spoke a sentence that would change my life…

“When you sit here and wail of wishing you could moderate your drinking, it reminds me of a left-handed person begging to be right-handed.”

Just. Like. That. I'm an overly analytical person and usually have a lot to say. I don't remember much of our convo after that. I'm not sure I remember any at all. The line blew me away! You'll have to read the “Moderation” piece (FUTURE LINK) to really understand why. But shit, I had spent a lot of time and energy and caused a lot of resulting damage frantically fighting a battle from every possible direction that I now realize I could never win. Throwing every damn man I have at a hill I could never take.

It was at that moment I realized (accepted) that there is no such thing as a moderate-drinker me. There are two possibilities…

1. I can quit drinking entirely; or

2. I can be a drunk.

That's it; those are the options available. I had spent years choosing and pursuing an alternative that didn't exist. I was no different than the left-hand man. This was also when I started really accepting a genetic component to this all. We have heavy alcoholism on both sides of the family tree. What I learned from CBT about the change of your own physiology from sustained heavy drinking leads me to conclude it can and would have hereditary impact. Not only did I do heavy damage to my receptors, they were always ripe for this slide and abuse.

I didn't want to be a drunk. That's why I was in this session instead of back at work. That's why I didn't just buy a beer (or 4) at that block party. And he was right. There is no such thing as the version of me that can just have a glass of wine over dinner or a margarita out with friends and shut it down. I'm the guy who doesn't want to shut it down and ends up chugging vodka in his garage behind his family's back. Every single time. That ain't a good way for anyone to live.

“The wine is drinking me.”

I didn't appreciate it at the time, but these little events were foretelling the end. They became the building blocks. Wait until you hear that football story. It was the final cement casting.