I had a drink the other night, like I have so many times before. But this time it was to help me sleep — it wasn’t unprompted. Which is worse?
I had two drinks the other night, like I have so many times before. But this time it was for a reason; it was to help with my anxiety — it wasn’t just a nightcap. Is one better?
I had three drinks the other day, because I just wanted to. There was no reason, no purpose. Is that okay?
I have a drink in my hand currently. I can’t seem to sleep without it. I should be asleep already. This isn’t good.
* * * * *
I have a tendency to over-exaggerate, especially for the sake of writing, so don’t get your hopes up that I’m falling back into the rabbit hole and will have juicy fuck-up stories to tell. (And please, please don’t tell me to not drink. That never works. It’s like telling someone who’s depressed to be happy — it just doesn’t work that way.)
Anyway, I occasionally indulge in a beer here and there. Usually around nighttime, usually just one or two, and usually not for any amount of consecutive days in a row. So this time is obviously different.
But still, I could feel it after that first night. The guilt. Why was I feeling guilty for doing something so normal? Had the AA / NA clan finally gotten in my head and tricked me into berating myself? It couldn’t be.
No, that’s not it. I still feel the same way about them as I did before.
And yet, I find myself hiding my Smirnoff from my dad, who doesn’t exactly like that I drink but has never had a problem with me having a few beers from time to time, either. (So drinking in my home isn’t prohibited, as the photo above suggests, but still frowned upon.)
I find myself asking Why and becoming worried over nothing. Nothing? Something?
Sadly, this chart doesn’t explain whether or not I have a drinking problem if I just like to have a beer sometimes. Then again, it does say that pretty much anyone in the world who drinks has a problem.
* * * * *
I find myself avoiding Jack’s comments about day drinking. And ignoring my own mind that this is not okay. And, of course, I haven’t relapsed because I’ve been doing this, sporadically, for years.
But I’ve never had this feeling.
This feeling that something is wrong. That I’m doing something wrong. The impending doom of ruining everyone’s lives — everyone close to me, like has happened before — is taking over me.
My son doesn’t deserve this. But what doesn’t he deserve? For his mother to have a drink or two, or three, on random days? I’m not getting drunk, so there are no worries there. I don’t drive, so that’s not an issue.
He does call my Smirnoff “Momma’s apple juice,” and that made the guilt hit me harder.
But really, there’s nothing to worry about.
I should mention that I’m writing this at 3am, and I only had one drink today.