Alcohol: the lover that turned into the LIAR.
I was listening to a recovery podcast recently, and the speaker described her relationship to alcohol with a phrase that struck me - for her, alcohol was the lover that had turned into the liar.
I instantly connected to these words because I could see and feel my story in them too.
For many many years, I used to joke with myself that the most significant relationship I was in was with my bottle of wine.
Alcohol was my lover, and my best friend - the one I could always depend on to be there in good times and in bad.
From the very beginning, drinking alcohol always felt like receiving a big warm hug from someone close.
Alcohol would wrap me in his big muscular arms and hold me tightly, like a fluffy blanket of safety; a protective bubble through which no harm or danger could penetrate.
With a couple of drinks in me, I’d be able to rest my head against his chest and actually b r e a t h e.
I would allow him to hold me steady, to support me, and coddle me through the stress and uncertainty of life.
Sometimes, we would dance and frolic like children do. I’d let alcohol lift me up onto his strong shoulders and twirl me around without fear of who else was watching or what I even looked like.
And you know what? For many years, alcohol did actually save me.
When I was a super shy 14 year old, struggling with social anxiety, and crippling self-doubt after an intercontinental move, alcohol swooped in and gave me an easy way to fit in and make new friends.
When I was at University and feeling the pressures of transitioning to adulthood, making yet more new friends, and getting good grades whilst battling my mental health issues, alcohol scooped me up and gave me a soft place to land.
When I started my first real job teaching high-school in my mid-20’s, alcohol became my confidant and stress reliever in the evenings.
Whenever I went on dates, or had sex, or went to parties or did new things that pushed me out of my comfort-zone, alcohol was always there cheering me on from the sidelines, filling me with the courage and confidence I needed to keep putting myself out there.
Or so I thought.
I don’t really know if there was an exact moment when the veil started to lift, when my skewed perception of my precious alcohol started to be revealed to me.
I think it was more a collection of moments over time.
Perhaps it was that moment when I was walking barefoot across the city on a night out with friends, I cut my foot open to the bone on glass or metal (I don’t even know) and didn’t even FEEL it because I was so numbed out. (I ended up in hospital to get stitches and was on crutches for a month after it got infected.)
Perhaps it was that moment when I had a panic attack at work and spent my lunch time crying alone in the tiny office at the back of my classroom. (Drinking always made my anxiety so much worse.)
Perhaps it was that moment when I face-planted in a bar right in front of an ex-coworker I had a huge crush on and ended up with a huge gash on my forehead that took weeks to heal. (Thank God he was an EX-coworker!!)
Perhaps it was one of the many horrific hangovers I suffered the morning after, those times when I promised myself once more that I would definitely NOT drink ever again. (But of course, I did not keep those promises.)
Gradually, these kinds of moments started to join together in my brain and started to reveal a certain pattern of behaviour and a truth that I didn’t really want to acknowledge.
This truth started out as a very light whisper that lived primarily in my gut.
The whisper told me that alcohol wasn’t the loyal lover and best friend that he had made himself out to be.
The whisper told me that alcohol had in fact been lying to me this entire time and taking me for a fool.
The whisper told me that even though it seemed like alcohol was helping me - in the moment - he was actually stripping me of everything inside of me that was special and sacred.
The whisper told me that I probably had - no definitely had - a drinking problem and that I needed to quit now before it got any worse.
It was a whisper that I ignored for several years, and suffocated with even more drinks.
But gradually, the whisper grew roots and became louder and louder until it was a scream that lived permanently inside my head.
And finally, I could not ignore it any longer.
