Drinking drinks, until the drinks drunk my mind dry.

That’s how I felt most days before, three years ago. Then one fateful day at the doc’s office, he made me come to terms with my mortality.

The doctor looked at my chart, then at me, then the chart. Blankly staring at the white sheets of paper in his embroidered leather portfolio. “Your liver enzymes are elevated.”

No emotion, no eye contact. Just liver and enzymes.

“You’re pre-hypertensive too.” He continues.

That last bit shook me more than the first bit because my father walked on from this world a few years prior. Heart conditions run in the family. Some say genetics, but sometimes I wonder if it’s more the eating habits we learned for generations.

My father died young. Two of his brothers died young. My grandfather died young. My grandmother died younger than all of them. I didn’t want to die young.

Of course, the pre-hypertension scared me more. It was now a competition against my father’s side of the family. I wanted to die older than all of them. Of course, it was all I could think about.

“Do you drink?” He asks.

“Yea, that’s how I’m still alive.” I say with a hollow laugh, the mirthless chuckle of a dying clown. At least, that’s how it played out in my head.

“Alcohol?” He responds, his voice monotone, expression like a stone carved gargoyle set for eternity.

“Of course,” I say.

“Do you consider yourself a heavy drinker?” He asks.

I had no idea what a heavy drinker was, but I was sure I didn’t fit in that category. Then he tells me, 5 drinks a night, or 15 a week.

The clinking ice cubes in my glass were a nightly soundtrack.

I considered myself quite the connoisseur of fine spirits and beers. More spirits than beer. Ok, maybe almost entirely spirits.

But seriously? That’s it? That’s all it takes to be a heavy drinker? I said to myself. Is there another category above that? Cause I can do the 5 drinks in half an hour, with the grace of a ballerina.

It was that bit of information. A skeleton dragged from my closet. Starring me In the face, demanding I confront it.

The realization, murky and clear, I was a heavy drinker; I was an alcoholic; I was the slave to a master I never realized, and far surpassed that threshold. I thought my tolerance was higher than others and my consumption levels were normal. There is no way I’m a heavy drinker, is there?

I didn’t realize how much I drank. I didn’t recognize alcohol’s tentacled hold on my life and health. I didn’t understand I was an alcoholic.

Maybe I did, and I didn’t want to admit it. I knew I drank when I shouldn’t. But did that make me an alcoholic? A heavy drinker? I never remember a craving for it, but I also don’t remember a time alcohol wasn’t handy.

The jokes my friends made about me. The I don’t know how you drink 6 triple shots in a couple hours and walk out the club fine comments. The times they setup up drinking challenges with random strangers. They watched those puny mortals buckle under the weight of my alcoholism.

Life’s meant for revelry, or so popular media preaches. What book, show, or film from the last two centuries avoids glorifying liquor? They all peddle drinking as the path to living fully – a magic elixir to relax, unwind, commemorate, cherish, destress, and rock out.

Alcohol promises temporary escape from the stresses of life. A shortcut to confidence, an easy social lubricant.

Movies tell us the highest highs and lowest lows deserve a good stiff drink. Television sells alcohol as a ticket to fun, friendship, and fulfillment. But the party only lasts until the buzz wears off. Then you’re left with the same problems you tried to drown in drink.

It was more than that for me; It was a coping mechanism. It was a way to deal with the trauma in my life. The good. The bad. The whatever.

It was also a way for me to get acceptance. People flocked around me to see what crazy stunt I would do next, like a circus display, a high-wire act, a trapeze artist with no net.

In the end, when I quit the booze. I didn’t have many friends left. I didn’t have any friends left. I was entertainment. A human in a societal zoo. My value to them was conditional on my drunkenness.

I wasn’t an adult about any of it. I handled all my stressors with the maturity of a toddler, throwing tantrums when life got tough. Grabbing my bottle to calm me down. I was never taught coping skills. Instead, my liver was a worn out sponge, soaked and saturated with liquor.

It wasn’t easy. Let me make this more clear, quitting isn’t easy!

The inaugural 336 hours of sobriety brought me to the gates of Hades itself. It was a hellish ordeal – the detox nearly dragged me down to old Beelzebub and the flaming underworld. But each day was a little better than the next.

In those 3 years since I stopped drinking, a lot has changed, and maybe ill get to talking about it.

I still grapple with many specters today, wrestling demons people don’t see. But I understand now that those haunting traumas stoked my faulty coping skills.

The pain became the gasoline I used to fuel flights from reality. Healing meant finally growing up, facing the shadows, and learning to live with my demons without letting them control me.

Sometimes I think true adulthood remains out of reach until we mend our fractured pasts. When I put down the bottle, my real journey began – a hazardous trek into my scarred psyche. To confront the monsters within.

My drunken escapades were legend, but sobriety has redirected my reckless ways. I’m no longer a punchline fueled on booze. Self-respect has replaced those drunken jokes I used to abuse.

If you have thought about cutting back, or doing life without alcohol, I encourage you to do it. If you are a heavy drinker like I was, or are dependent, seek help before quitting suddenly. The detox can kill you, something I wish I knew before I broke off my relationship with alcohol.

If you have questions, or want to share a similar story, I would love to hear them in the comments below!

Off to sip my tea, chat later!