My grandmother was a legendary alcoholic. As in… hit a train, drove the wrong way on the interstate, crossed the divider and drug the fence home… she set the tone for abusing substances without smudging her lipstick.
She’s why I don’t drink vodka. I don’t know what it is, but vodka and I are a deadly combination. I ride bulls in dresses, dance handsome strangers into agreeing to things they know they shouldn’t… you name it. Vodka removes all my filters, inhibitions and sense. Grey Goose is like napalm. Noooooo more goose. Never, ever.
I spent a few years serving and bartending, so I can make most drinks and really enjoy the art of mixology. I love a gin gimlet and make a mean margarita.
But champagne is my real favorite. My Fancy best and I have flooded the problems out with a few hundred bubbles, and this Corona Virus is seriously cramping my coping style, because I’d love to be sitting on the couch with her, mimosa in hand (and by mimosa I mean morning/afternoon champagne, please don’t junk up my prosecco with orange juice.) We toast to happy days and cry into our bubbles on the sad ones. We celebrate and grieve just the same… with a bubbly glass of it’s-going-to-be-ok.
I sat across from her a month ago, hot tears rolling down my cheeks as my whole universe imploded. She’d talked me through a million times of being jerked around by the opportunist I’d let crawl under my skin and take residence. I’ve cried about him for over a year and she’s loved me through going back when I knew I should run the opposite direction. Having cried into too many glasses of delicious bubbles, I apologized for the millionth time as the server walked up with a worried look on her face. Tears fell faster, as sympathy only rubber stamps my heart knowing it’s ok to break. She filled my glass to the top and patted my arm. My bright and beautiful best was grinning at me from across the table. I’d made the decision to leave and that included leaving her. Although months away, my heart broke at the thought that this was one of the last bubbly lunches.
F- Cheers! This is GOOD!!! It’s almost over!
J- I hate him so much.
F- That’s good too. I’ll drink to that.
Alcohol has always been celebratory until I got my soul ripped out through my heart. I learned what it meant to numb those feelings and ended up with a fat ass and a hangover. Medicating depression with a depressant is about as masochistic as you can get, and I’ve learned a lot about myself and my relationship with alcohol in the past 2 years. I reach for a cup of tea and my knitting these days, where I was drinking instead of fostering hobbies that have always soothed me.
One bad man can make your social drinking turn serious. I gave up vodka… then gin… then wine… and settled in to face all those awful feelings, sober.
It’s really the only way to deal with the worst shit.
Seeing him walk in hung over most mornings, becoming accustomed to the endless parade of energy drinks and Powerade that accompanied him… I saw exactly what I didn’t want to become, in the man I wanted so much to love. It was confusing, and it took me a long time to see that I was only wasting my time, compromising my health and ending up with wrinkles and bleeding ulcers as a result.
Alcohol had never been a pacifier. I had to change how I drink, how I feel about drinking, and check in with myself about why I was pouring one. If there’s one silver lining to enduring all that bullshit with him, it’s that.
Drugs have never been a thing for me. I did cocaine once and hated it. I ended up at home alone at 3 am… running on my damn elliptical machine until I had to get ready for work. Worst. Day. Ever. I seriously thought I was going to die by the time the dinner rush was done at the restaurant I was working in. Never again.
Pills make me puke, the scary stuff doesn’t tempt me enough to roll those dice and I’m sexual enough without ecstasy.
Marijuana is my jam. I can clean the whole damn house, bake an entire 8 course meal AND sew a dozen easter bunnies. I get shit done when I’m high. I also eat. A lot. I love the light ease of breezing through a long, hard day with a little ganja…. but I’m not trying to be 400 pounds, and I could get there quick with a stoner habit. So it’s a limited love affair that I don’t regularly indulge. I have too much shit to do and although it’s pleasant to have your head in a cloud for a bit… reality doesn’t wait for the fog to clear and I like to be in control of my life at all times.
I’d try mushrooms though. I’ve heard a lot of hilarious stories about them and life is too short not to experiment a little.
Just don’t unpack and live there… nobody likes a strung out junkie.