I’ve been having the occasional drink since I was 16. At first, it was just for “funsies”, until it became a minor habit. I loved who I was when I drank, I was flirty and a joy to be around. I had so much fun.
Later in life, my battle with depression and anxiety got worse, it had been years since I had a drink, and I thought it would just help take the edge off. That night, I got wasted and noticed the voices were suddenly silent. I felt joy again.
After that night, I was constantly drinking. I would get wasted almost every night. It became a serious problem. I tried going a few months without it, but then I would get really deep in depression and go back to the alcohol. Lather, rinse, repeat. I found myself in a vicious cycle.
Last night, after a few weeks without alcohol, I found myself feeling really upset. I turned to the trusty bottle. I knew it wasn’t the right choice, I knew it would only grant me temporary relief rather than fixing the issue. A weak band-aid. Last night, I got wasted and did some pretty stupid things, said a bunch of stuff I shouldn’t have.
I knew better, but I drank anyway. I’ve been loosely following recovery and cutting back, but last night was the last straw. If I keep relying on alcohol to cope with things, I’ll die before I can see my kids graduate. My kids need me. My husband needs me.
I found out recently that I am related to a bunch of people with alcoholism, and for a time that’s how I justified it. “Just following the ancestral footsteps.” I’d joke, but knew deep down it was the wrong path.
I need to be better. I am worthy of better. I have every right to live this amazing life, sober. I deserve happiness, sober.