I’m in Recovery, But I Still Accommodate Alcohol
Society tells me I’m being considerate, but my compliance may be causing more harm than I realize.
It took me months after my last drink until I was ready to be around drinking, and more months until I could step foot in a bar.
My first booze-free birthday was spent alone in the woods because hiking was one of the few activities from the time before that I did not associate with drinking. Same with holidays.
Now it’s been 4 years, enough time to earn a degree in the intricacies of alcohol-free living.
I avoid bars not because I’m worried about relapsing, but because I’m poor and I’d like to be able to have a conversation without shouting. Holidays still present a challenge, but my family knows to stock up on canned seltzer and zero-proof rosé prior to my arrival.
I feel like I’ve been handed a diploma that reads, “CONGRATS, DIRTBAG. YOU’RE LEGIT…ONE DAY AT A TIME”.
That last part rings ominously true lately.
As cocky as I can get in recovery, I’ve been noticing my defenses slipping lately. Thoughts that might have barely registered a few months ago now congregate in my brain like fruit flies to the bananas that have been sitting on my counter for a week. Thoughts like, “How much bitters could I get away with drinking to get buzzed?” and “This energy drink would taste better with vodka.”
I’m still able to shake them off. But their very presence is unnerving.
How did I get here?
I am an addict, and so are most of my favorite people. Obviously, I identify with drinkers. I love drinkers — and so I try to make them comfortable, even if it means putting myself in a triggering situation.
Society tells me this makes me considerate. Easygoing. Cool.
But even after 4 years, I’m reminded of alcohol’s stronghold on society in the ways I still normalize and accommodate its presence in my life. You probably do, too.
Dismissing a venue if there isn’t a bar
The desire for universal comfort propels me to solve a problem that doesn’t really exist.
Eating out with groups is hard, but I like to think I’m good at choosing restaurants that will appeal to everyone’s palette while respecting dietary concerns. Having an eating disorder for 16 years has made me particularly sensitive to the discomfort a public dining experience can present, and I really want everyone to be comfortable.
The desire for universal comfort propels me to solve a problem that doesn’t really exist. In this case, the problem is sober socializing.
I remember what it was like to go to a restaurant without alcohol when I was drinking. Without a glass of wine, the pasta seemed less romantic and more like cold carbs on a greasy plate. The tacos would surely have tasted blander if not accompanied by an IPA (or three).
Food aside, I never had any idea how to fill the silence on these occasions. What was there to talk about except for how miserable and annoyed I was that life sucked and happy hour ended 20 minutes ago?
Even though I don’t drink anymore, I still find myself taking this into consideration when I know I will be going out with drinkers. Part of me remains deathly afraid that we will all end up in awkward silence while waiting for appetizers. So I bypass the hole in the wall I’ve been wanting to patronize forever in lieu of the chain restaurant where I know there will be a bar.
Nobody asks me to do this, but I do it anyway.
I have to remember that just because I struggled to carry a conversation without booze doesn’t mean that everyone will. Besides, what’s wrong with a little discomfort? That’s where all my favorite conversations have been born.
Buying alcohol for parties where I know I won’t drink
What stuck out to me in this situation was my complete disregard for my own actual safety in favor of creating a faux sense of safety for my guests.
Several months after moving into our current apartment, my partner and I threw a game night. I waited until the day before to start planning the menu: giant bags of generic chips, an assortment of frozen appetizers, and an industrial veggie tray that maybe two people would end up touching.
Then, I froze. Drinks! How can I have a party without drinks?
Panicked, I sent my partner down the street for a case of Bud Light. Only afterward did I pause to reconsider, but by then it was too late. That case remained in our fridge for days.
I feel like I don’t need to say this, but you’re probably screaming it at the screen anyway: it’s a really stupid idea to keep alcohol in your house if you’re a recovering alcoholic.
Moving on.
What stuck out to me in this situation was my complete disregard for my own actual safety in favor of creating a faux sense of safety for my guests. I assumed that they would need a socially acceptable security blanket, but in doing so failed to entertain the possibility that they might be fine without it.
Maybe expecting others to accommodate me isn’t crazy selfish. Maybe I don’t give my loved ones enough credit.
Let’s say someone actually reconsiders coming to my house because I don’t have anything for them to drink. It’s never happened, but if it does, I will recognize it as a personal problem — one that I will absolutely explore with them, but not one that I take upon myself to enable.
I encourage guests to BYOB, but I will insist that not a drop remains on my premises at the end of the night. And I definitely won’t be the one doing the purchasing, because saving money on alcohol is one of the great unadulterated benefits of sobriety and you can’t take it away from me.
Treating debaucherous stories like anything but somber reminders of my own addiction
The story that seems funny on the surface turns sinister once you start listening for the pain in the subtext.
The other day I was at a gathering and a friend launched into a story about something embarrassing they did while binge drinking. The story culminated, as they so often do, with an involuntary release of bodily fluids. Everyone laughed.
I laughed too, but it didn’t feel good.
The thing is, I know how to spin my past alcohol abuse in a way that could captivate an entire frat house. I could make it hilarious, and I’m admittedly guilty of doing exactly that. But doing so erases the fact that alcohol nearly killed me, a fact I can’t afford to forget.
The story that seems funny on the surface turns sinister once you start listening for the pain in the subtext. Bringing this pain to the surface means acknowledging institutional flaws in ourselves, flaws that are difficult to stomach. I can’t blame people for not wanting to go there. But I can no longer ignore it because that would mean ignoring the very reason I keep slogging away at recovery.
So the next time someone close to me casually shares how they fell off a table while doing shots in Brooklyn, tore open their shoulder, and went hours without realizing it (totally didn’t happen to me), I will not laugh. I will resist the desire to be entertained.
But I will listen. I will empathize.
And, if they’re ready, I will let them into my world.
Raspberry seltzer goes with everything, by the way.
Christina Jumper writes about addiction, eating disorders, harm reduction, deconstruction, and recovery. She is the creator and cohost of Pickles and Vodka: a Mental Health Podcast, where she embarrasses herself weekly.
