Facebook has a remarkable way of reminding me exactly how crazy things had gotten in my life. You know those “Memories” that it shows. Many of mine are related to what I was drinking that day. Either a picture of a drink, a check in on untapd, or even more disturbing a post about how much I was looking forward to having a drink.
It’s been nine months and one day since I took my last drink. I don’t know what it was. It was a beer, but I couldn’t tell you which one. And not because I’d blacked out, just because it was so inconsequential at the time. I didn’t know that it would be my last drink. And maybe it won’t be — I’m conscious that a slip or a relapse are distinctly possible, though I pray that neither happens.
Quite a juxtaposition, I think. I posted about booze on Facebook almost daily, and yet, on the last day of my drinking, I didn’t post anything about it. It wasn’t important to share with the world. It simply wasn’t important.
Alcohol had lost its shine. It had stopped working for me. I was ready to stop, but I didn’t know how to do so.
So much has changed in the past nine months. I still think about alcohol everyday — but not in the way I did back then. Most days, I think about how grateful I am that I’m not living that way any longer. But to be honest, there are days when I think about how I might like the taste of a beer or a bourbon, but I truly don’t want the effect any more. I can’t explain it, but there is a certain fear that comes up when I think about getting drunk.
The other night, after a long day, I found myself at home — exhausted, frustrated, and in that place where I would have been very likely to get annihilated in the past. Black out drunk. Forget it all. A real Fuck It kind of place.
Except that I wasn’t doing what I’d done best for so long, I was lying on the couch, watching reruns of Shark Week with my eight year old son lying on top of me, snuggling. My wife and his grandfather were in the room. It was a normal family evening.
It was a minor miracle.