The passage of time
by Zoeyjane
On Monday, I will have been sober for 200 days.
This seems both a large number, a defeating one, and pointless all at the same time.
200. I’ve never counted anything that high before. Not pennies, not meals, not days without sexual encounters. Truth be told, I stop counting the pennies at 50. And eating, for the most part, like a sane person doesn’t seem world-defining, like quitting alcohol, so I haven’t counted. I’m positive that The Ex and I, and the ex and I before The Ex and I, were back at shagging before a few months had passed since the last time a tab fit into the slot.
Delaying gratification isn’t my strong suit.
When I quit drinking, it wasn’t a hitting bottom moment. It wasn’t to save my health, or really even my sanity.
It was an experiment.
The larger the number got, and the more I salivated over the thought of first vodka, then beer, then cider I would never have daydreamed of before, the more convinced I became that I had a problem.
Yes, I drank my feelings. I think everyone does at some point. Yes, I craved a drink at the end of every. damn. day. But I didn’t always drink it, and I nearly always limited it to one or two. Yes, I think drink specials are a rare form of torture that only 20-something servers with better asses than me like to implement. But they’re a clam-infused, extra spicy, with two pickled green beans tasty type of torture.
My best friend had me nearly convinced that I don’t really have a problem, because even when I was compelled, it wasn’t priority. I lapped up her idea that I was denying myself because of The Ex’s issues, because I was identifying too much with him and making his rules my own. She was standing at the pulpit and I was prepared to be saved. Her husband poked in his point, that he has a drink most days after work, and I quickly swallowed my knee-jerk, that’s pretty often judgment.
But then, I stood in the kitchen – where the alcohol stood on the counter – and time stood still. My heart started trying to jump out of my chest. I think it was to get closer to the vodka. I started to sweat and shiver. My mouth got dry. Only three seconds had passed before I had to leave because I was nearing the precipice of panic attack.
Even knowing that physical reaction took place, I still had some doubt, and it was further engorged by coffee with a friend on the weekend. He said I should go out some night with him and some friends. Just have a good time, no big deal. Something I never do. We’d been discussing my sobriety a bit, and I made the rookie mistake of saying that I rarely drank more than one or two drinks, and how I was doubting if I really even had a problem since I managed self-control so much. And he said so come out, have one or two.
And then I knew.
Yeah, I’ve got a problem for sure, because as I said maybe and tried to think of it – going out and being social like a normal person of my peer group without kids – I got high.
Elated, thinking of the relaxation, and how I might get a little louder and I might dance at the pub when there is, in fact, no dance floor at the pub, and how I would invariably end up flirting with some undefined number of people and hey, maybe even find someone to temporarily span time with. And boom, my pupils dilated and I started looking through the filing cabinets in my head for ways to make it happen.
And then, that night, I thought about grabbing a drink with dinner.
As an experiment.
