I used to be quite proud of my ability to consume alcohol. I thought it was a testament to my sturdiness or my bravado or my strength in some way. I derived satisfaction from the fact that I could chug beers with the guys, that I could “hold my liquor” - or so it appeared. I wasn’t one of those weaklings who would get tipsy after a glass of wine. No, I could go the distance!
The truth was, however, that I was a day-after-hangover from-hell kinda girl. But it was worth it! I used to think. Sure, the end of the night was kinda fuzzy, but whatever, this was normalized with my friend group and wasn’t any reason for concern. In fact, it was part of the day-after-put-the-pieces-back-together fun.
Then I had kids. And being hungover on the weekend while trying to keep the kids from killing themselves or each other really pounded in the dark shame and feelings of loser-dome. These kids, they just have so much damn lust for life! Every day they want to play and explore and be rambunctious. Every. Damn. Day!
So I tried to keep the hangovers to a minimum. I tried to moderate, to alternate with water, to set limits. And it worked, pretty well, most of the time. Except when it didn’t.
The problem was, I didn’t seem to be able to predict when my limits would work, and when some part of me would decide, “Nope, tonight we are going for it!” All my plans and moderation would fly out the window and then it was ON. There is a part of me that wants to say yes, to EVERYTHING. She would rise up, take over, and I would have no control over what would happen after that.
I love this rebellious part of me, she truly does not give a fuck. And she has her role to play, but putting her in charge of my alcohol consumption always led to disaster.
What started to scare me the most was the loss of control and the unpredictability of when she would take over. And the older I got, the consequences seemed to be growing. Not only would I curse myself the whole next day, and maybe the day after that too, but I would get into weird and potentially dangerous situations, I would have no recollection of who I said what to, or sometimes, how I got home. These missing pieces of my night would compound with the hangovers and grow into anxiety, shame and embarrassment.
I hated the hangovers, and the anxiety and the self-loathing, but I really hated not being able to predict or plan my consumption. I hated not knowing if tonight would be one of those nights that would take days to get over. I guess I hated the loss of control over how I would feel, or what I would do, or who I might offend.
When I decided to take a break, to figure out a new way, my confidence in my ability to care for myself started to grow. In fact, that rebellious part of me, she found out that saying no to drinking in a drinking culture was in itself an act of defiance. She loved how it boggled people’s minds, confused or disarmed them. And she loves waking up without a hangover. It never gets old.